


Free To A Good Home

by Giggles96



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Creeper Derek Hale, Dark, Diapers, Drugging, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Fluff and Angst, Forced Ageplay, Forced infantilism, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I do not condone this, Infantilism, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, Non-Sexual Age Play, Obsessive Behavior, Pacifiers, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7486815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giggles96/pseuds/Giggles96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He saw him. He took him. It’s so much more complicated than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GentlyWithAChainsaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GentlyWithAChainsaw/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Derek's Baby Boy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6035608) by [GentlyWithAChainsaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GentlyWithAChainsaw/pseuds/GentlyWithAChainsaw). 



> This is based on Gently’s amazing [Derek‘s Baby Boy Series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/455842). Call it an AU of sorts. I’m just building on that. She is the evil genius behind it all. If this goes south, I’m blaming her.
> 
> Also: Please refrain from unnecessarily negative comments. Not your piece of cake? Perfectly okay. Just don’t be a dick about it. My feelings are fragile.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine; for entertainment purposes only.

**PREFACE**    
 [](http://s1302.photobucket.com/user/LittleDesertRose/media/wolf%2014_zpseaapebmc.png.html)

Three months earlier:

 

Derek slides up one to make room for the newcomers to take their seats; a nervous, bright-eyed young couple. He flashes a brief, reassuring smile in their direction, then returns to tapping out his message. He’s perched on the edge of the uncomfortable, plastic chair, scrubbing a hand across his mouth as he glares at the screen. Jackson was supposed to be keeping him posted on any recent developments in his surveillance duties, but Jackson being Jackson, he has yet to get in contact. Probably too busy chasing after Lydia. Derek’s growing a little impatient.

“Everything alright?” the woman, the late one, to his left murmurs, brows furrowed in concern.

“Not sure,” Derek sighs, slumping back in defeat and pocketing his phone. “Babysitter’s not responding to my texts. I don’t like being kept in the dark.” Jackson should know better than this. _Something_ is always better than nothing. Is a straightforward, _‘No change. He’s all right, shift‘s not over yet,’_ really too much to ask for? Derek is going to have to have words with his Beta when he gets back. This simply won’t do.

“Oh?” She raises a brow. “You have another little one at home?”

Lips quirking, Derek huffs out a short laugh. “Something like that,” he mutters wryly.

He tunes back into the lecture to discover, to his relief, that the woman leading the seminar has moved on from preaching about the chemistry behind attachment. They covered this in the pamphlets passed around in the beginning. It’s nothing Derek hasn’t heard before.

“—Boost those happy hormones to promote emotional instability and make the transition easier for all of the family. We have a team of psychologists, neurologists and biochemists on hand to create the perfect blend of hormones for you and your baby to form strong neuropath ways and seal the bond as soon as possible. ”

Or not.

So much for that.

Bored, Derek adjusts his shirt collar, feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable in his own skin. He’s clad in casual, yet refined attire: dark fitted pants and a Parma grey dress shirt from some elite designer he‘d never heard of - and didn’t care to, until Lydia yelled at him. The first two buttons on his shirt are undone and he's sans a tie, but, other than that, the Alpha is as presentable as he‘s ever likely to get. Good impressions and all that. Allison and Lydia had sworn to him before he’d left that he looked fine. Better than fine, actually. Quite fetching, if he recalls correctly. Serious but approachable. In his opinion, Derek just looks more intimidating than ever.

“—Primed hormonally with an influx of endorphins and other narcotic-like hormones to keep them calm and responsive to their mummies and daddies, you will have all the tools you need for a smooth-sailing arrival —”

Derek had half-expected this to be an in-and-out, show-your-face, kind of deal. But it appears that he was wrong. They’re planning to drag out every last second.

The woman - had he even listened long enough to learn her name? Evidently not, as nothing is springing to mind. Maybe the letter ‘P?’ Paula, Portia, Pamela…Person?

Person clasps her hands together, tilting her shoulders back and smiling wide at the room full of hopefuls. She clicks onto the next slide, displaying a blown-up image of a middle-aged female werewolf lovingly bottle-feeding a young girl in her late teens. Derek personally doesn’t see the need for the PowerPoint. Sure, a visual aid can be helpful. But all it is doing is showing cute pictures of established families. He supposes it simply adds to the whole lifestyle they‘re trying to sell.

“Introducing a new baby can be stressful and requires a great deal of time and effort,” the finely-dressed woman continues. She seems nice, a true professional, though her lipstick is a shade too dark for her skin-tone.

“Many arrange to take some time off work, provided they can afford to do so, which…” she chuckles lowly, “is hardly an issue for the majority of our clients. Many employers are very understanding of mothers and fathers-to-be, particularly those going solo, and allocate a generous maternity and paternity leave. It takes time to develop a daily routine that suits the whole family, to become comfortable around and get to know each other. I cannot emphasis enough how critical the first weeks are for bonding. You must devote all of your time and energy to making your baby at home. It is highly discouraged that parents-to-be hire a nanny during this period or pass off responsibilities on daycare staff or close relatives. You and your partner must establish yourselves as the primary caregivers. Build trust, demonstrate reliability. Bridge an emotional connection on a primal, even spiritual, level.”

Onto the next photograph. A do’s and don’ts page, outlining what the Society finds acceptable and what they prefer to…tweak. For example, pointy objects replaced with a soft chew toy. Weapons locked up out of sight. Never leaving babies alone for more than a minute or two at a time, or pioneering a lavish enclosed play area (aka, playpen) in your line of view. Basic common sense.

“Of course, the child’s welfare is of the utmost priority. You may find that upon home inspection, we suggest small changes here and there, so that your home is best prepared and we can rest assured that you are well equipped to deal with the challenges ahead. It is imperative that we ascertain there is nothing which could pose a risk to the baby. Therefore, it is advised that you explore which measures should be taken _before_ we drop by. That way, you will have a much shorter waiting spell to receive the green light. Be sure to take one of our carefully-devised hand-outs crafted by leading experts in the field on guidelines for discipline and tips on baby-proofing. You can also sign up to our online newsletter for more information and advice on adhering to our rules and procedures.”

And they’re all about their rigid procedures. So far, Derek has followed procedure to the letter: filling out his application, undergoing specialist training, passing said six-week training programme with flying colours, opening his home for a pair of pretentious snobs to pore over with a fine toothcomb. The standards are high, and, from the very beginning when he set out to possess his little boy, Derek had no intention to do anything other than everything in his power to meet their meticulous specifications to all outward appearances.

Hopefuls on both sides are subjected to a thorough background check to ensure they are the right ‘fit.’ They check family history. May even trace back several generations. As such, many are placed in wealthy, affluent homes with devoted parents desperate for a child. (And, if, a candidate ever backs out, they are forced to sign a confidentiality agreement that precludes them from acknowledging the existence of werewolves. Or else.)

Before adoption, families are treated to a surprise home inspection to ensure everything is up to scratch (he had his conducted weeks ago). That is, if you survive the gruelling screening process. Much of it is a string of blatant tick-box exercises, but it‘s long and time-consuming. It helps to speed things along with a generous ‘anonymous’ donation, which he suspects is the whole point they drag it out.

“—Feel free to scope out our re-homing centres online or during one of our monthly open days,” the smooth-talking lady cordially invites, gesturing warmly. “All of our candidates have been vetted and certified by the trust. We ensure they are approached weeks in advance in order to gauge whether or not they are the right ‘fit’ for us. We do allow a short trial period for those who wish to ‘keep their options open,’ so to speak. Until the adoption has been finalised, there are no rules about swapping out one cub for another, if you do not believe they are the one for you. Here at the Society, we place a great emphasis on matching babies with the most suitable families. Pairing up cubs with families who have similar hopes and goals, with everyone’s best interests at heart —”

It helps to have connections on the inside, Derek muses. Makes the whole process go a lot smoother. As a result, many opt for the Society’s private branch of service. Such as is the case now: Rows upon rows of anxious parents-to-be diligently awaiting the baby’s arrival. Ready to do whatever it takes, _be_ whatever needs be, in order to be obtain that red stamp of approval.

“If you run into any difficulties or have any questions/queries, or simply need support and advice, don’t hesitate to contact our nine-to-five helpline, or call in out of hours to our emergency service if you’re in need of urgent assistance. You can also make an appointment at your local healthcare branch to address any further concerns you may have.”

The seminar concludes, ending on a high note - a final slide boasting a stunning sequence of photos of slumbering babies in a chain of cots, suckling meekly on their pacifiers, while potential adopters beam from behind the glass - and receiving a polite round of applause.

The domestication of humans is not a newfound concept. It’s been a common practise carried out among many werewolf communities for decades.

Babies enrol - voluntarily, as a general rule - by ceding all rights to adulthood and agreeing to take part. For life. Often, they are wards of the state: homeless kids or troubled youth or the long-term unemployed; Individuals who serve to derive the most benefit from the programme. Those are the ones who - after some persuasion - sign up with gusto. Rarely are the individual’s rights revoked. Rarely are they held against their will. But that’s not to say it doesn’t happen. Every so often, someone falls through the cracks. And sometimes, well. Sometimes —

Someone gets pushed.

 


	2. Chapter One

[ ](http://s1302.photobucket.com/user/LittleDesertRose/media/intro_zpsrspxg9bm.png.html)

  

Present Day:

 

“Gotta another one in the gutter. Lane four, this time around. Stiles, would you mind?”

Stiles shakes the pressurized can of Lysol, administering one last generous spurt, before laying the putrid shoes aside. “Sure, Steve-o,” he breezes, slapping on a jolly smile as he gives a mocking salute. “Whatever you need, man.” Stupid, ugly, conceited butthead -

“How many times must I remind you, Stiles? It’s _Steven_. No abbreviations.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves him away. Rolling his eyes and snorting to himself, Stiles swings his arms and springs up, before bringing his hand close to his face for a sniff. _Ugh_. _Christ_. He just about controls his grimace. Great. Fan-freakin‘-tastic. Now his hands are gonna stink of feet for the rest of the week. “Stephan, Steven. You know me. Can’t seem to keep it straight up in the old noggin‘.” Stiles knocks lightly on his temple as he blows past, smirking.

The young man’s lip curls, tone drenched in thinly-veiled disdain. “Try,” he sneers.

“Sure thing, I‘ll get right on it. Soon as I take care of these lovely ladies.” Stiles plasters on his most disarming smile as he draws nearer the cluster of elderly women, who titter in the shrillest pitch and whisper furiously amongst themselves in the background, smiling slyly at his approach. He swears they aim for the gutter on purpose.

It’s a Thursday night. Which means the ladies senior league are out in their knee-length skirts, too dark pantyhose, and matching dusty rose cardigans, with pink blusher caked onto their cheeks and red lipstick smeared around too-thin lips. They meet up at eight o’clock on the dot every fortnight without fail and bowl for a maximum of two hours, before carting their oversized purses over to the bar across the street for some fruity cocktails. No, seriously. Off they pop to their regular booth in the back of that dusky dive to dish the dirt and get tipsy off of the special of the week. Every. Single. Time. Gotta love ‘em. Not bad for a group of over-sixties. He has to hand it to them; those gals sure know how to have fun.

Their social calendar is fuller than his. God, how depressing is that?

“Stiles, honey! How are you? We weren’t sure if you would be working tonight. It‘s wonderful to see you. But, my goodness, you look _awful_. Are you coming down with something? Your skin’s as pale as a sheet! And, goodness gracious, why you‘re hardly more than skin and bones, at this point. What do you eat? You simply must take better care of yourself. Don’t go disappearing on us.”

They swarm him in seconds, stroking the span of Stiles‘ shoulders and fussing over the style of his hair.

“And what of the love life? Are you still stuck on that…oh, heaven’s. What was her name? Sheila? Nadia-?”

“Lydia,” he supplies. He scratches the back of his neck. “And, no. I‘m over it.”

Mrs. Turner eyes him over the top of her glasses, lips pursed. “Are you sure, dear? If I recall, you were quite smitten. But, oh well.” She smiles slightly. “Her loss. Such a handsome young man as yourself could have anyone. How is it no-one‘s snatched you up yet?”

They continue to bombard him with questions while he warily slides down past the greased point of the highly polished lane to retrieve the trapped bowling ball caught in the trenches and palm it off on one of the patiently waiting older women. Stiles lingers for another few blithe, lazy minutes filled with idle chatter. This time on a weekday, the place is practically dead, anyway. However, he soon spots Steven glaring at him from over by the arcade games where he’s keeping tabs on a couple preteens he regards as ‘rebellious’ (they literally have one ear piercing between them. And one of the boy‘s hair is naturally black), and expresses his apologies as they part ways.

“Didn’t I tell you to take out the trash?” Steven barks over the howl of laughter and piped in music.

“Uhhh. No...?”

“Well, I’m telling you now. Do it. And sweep the floors, while you‘re at it. They‘re a disgrace.” He gestures towards the crushed popcorn at his feet and toppled _‘Caution: wet floor’_ sign like it’s _Stiles’_ fault he couldn’t be assed to bend down and right it himself.

“Do I _look_ like a cleaning lady to you?”

Turning his back and fluttering a dismissive hand over his shoulder at the disgruntled co-worker, Stiles receives one of Steven’s signature world-weary sighs. “Just get it done.”

Exhaling shortly in disbelief, Stiles shakes his head and does as he’s told. Doesn’t matter that technically, yeah - he outranks the dick. Stiles can’t say shit. Not when he’s the owner’s precious only son. Can’t upset that holier than thou prick. God forbid he should open his big mouth and give him a piece of his mind. Oh, no. Not unless he wants to be thrown out outta here like yesterday’s trash.

Stupid Steven.

Sometimes this job really sucks ass. Not even the perks of being able to bowl whenever you feel like and the promise of free food (at a discount) can possibly top that dude’s arrogance. And another thing: The _gonna-shine-my-balls_ jokes; the backlog of slick puns and dirty innuendos? They get old. So old, _so fast_. And that’s one thing Stiles never thought he‘d say. Usually, he’s all for a touch of dirty-mindedness. But now? The shine is well and truly gone. If he’s learnt anything during his tenure here, it’s that guys are never as original as they think they are - not when talking about dicks.

After impatiently concluding a hectic, stressful senior year, Stiles had accepted a full-time managerial position at the bowling alley. It had more hours and less flexibility and came with a ten-percent bump in salary. And that’s not all.

His breaks are shorter, the bosses’ kid is a complete douche, and even a minute or two of tardiness can be heavily penalized, with a serious dock in pay come payday. But he’s convinced that the measly raise makes every last, excruciating second worth it - probably. Has to. He’ll lose his mind otherwise.

It was only supposed to be a summer job. Gain some experience and build up a couple hundred in savings for starting college in the fall. As you do.

But life doesn’t always work like that. Life’s cruel.

And were Stiles to use any one singular word to describe his life in its current state, it would be this:

Half.

Or, simply, halved.

He starts TV shows, but never makes it past the penultimate episode of the first series; too nervous to watch the finale and face an ending. Instead, he severs all ties with the original material. He reads mystery novels only to give up at the halfway point. And it's not that he means to; he doesn’t ever mean to. Stiles never intends to cut the story short. One day he tucks a battered bookmark inside to mark his place and sets the paperback down flat on his nightstand and weeks seem to race by without him ever picking it up again. Then, one day, it's stowed away in the shelf and the bookmark marks a new page of a new mystery that will never evolve past the point of mysteriousness. He DVRS shows that will never be watched. Buys books that will never be read. Splurges on a daytrip to the movie theatre and rips his ticket stub in two and walks out midway through.

His Dad died. His heart halved. His mind was cracked in two.

Muttering to himself, Stiles steps out into the back alley and hobbles through the din of the rain to haul the overstuffed garbage bag into the dumpster. Damn thing’s practically filled to the brim. Pinching his nose closed between his thumb and index finger, Stiles reaches in and crams an empty pizza box deeper into the overflowing dumpster to make space and remembers the taste and remembers the smell, and the thought of powdery cheese makes him pull back and wring his stomach so hard it's easy to pass off his nausea as a natural response to the rancid stench.

Collapsing against the sandy red brick, he takes deep pulls in and out through his nose and tries to divest himself of the desire to vomit up last night‘s dinner. Steven will probably be wondering what’s the hold up. But he can’t bring himself to care. Let him fume. What difference does it make? Stiles does not feel like dealing with his emotional baggage right now.

It’s around the same time that he shuts his eyes and starts to take notice of the rainwater soaking into his clothes that Stiles becomes aware of the sensation of being watched.

His neck prickles; a shiver shoots up his spine. Suddenly, he can’t get back inside quick enough.

He’s had these creeping suspicions before, which he often attributed to a lack of food impairing his judgement and stirring up unwarranted paranoia. But, lately…

Lately, Stiles isn’t so sure.

At times, on the drive home, he gets the sense that someone’s tailing him, and then there‘s that general feeling of unease when he‘s out in public, and he doesn’t want to even think about the number of times he‘s caught a hooded figure lurking around outside his flat. And if there was one thing his Dad taught him from all of his years on the force, it was to trust his gut, and his gut is telling him something is _wrong_.

_Granted_ , it hasn’t quite figured out what to _do_ about it yet, but Stiles is working on it. All he needs is evidence. To prove he’s not just going insane.

Back inside, he plays janitor until his shift ends at midnight. He’s last out, so he shuts off the lights and casts a chary glance around as he heads out. Down the block, there’s a gaggle of teenagers loitering about, hooting with laughter and stamping out cigarette butts, who pay him no heed. Stiles busies his hands by untangling his earphones and popping in an ear-bud, keeping the other ear clear just in case. The cool metal of the keys dig into his sweaty palm as he clutches them in his hand.

He locks up, twirls the battered keychain around his finger and shoves the set of keys into his pocket with an offbeat jingle. It is as he is turning away that Stiles catches a glimpse of red - and almost has a heart attack right there.

Red, menacing eyes hover in the darkness, without proof of their existence. Blink and you’ll miss it.

Here one moment, gone in a flash. A mere taste of insanity seared into his mind, bleeding over into his waking nightmares with visions of sharp-toothed smiles and iris’ the colour of bloody knives.

He keeps a tight grip on a handful of his shirt and rubs his chest, trying to persuade more air to enter his suddenly spluttering lungs. Stiles pinches his arm and slaps his cheeks a few times for good measure. Sleep-deprivation. That’s all it is. _Red eyes_ , he snorts, head shaking as he spins on his heel and jogs over to his jeep. _You gotta be kidding me..._ What next? Stiles laughs. The bogey monster?

Amidst the shadows of the forest and haggard trees, the glare of red follows and watches intently as he throws the truck in reverse and speeds away.  

Stiles shoulders his way inside, kicks the door closed with a grunt; almost trips over a scattering of mail at his feet.

He gathers up the wad of letters and flings them across the counter to tackle later. Then he keeps blindly walking towards his bedroom, yanking his top up over his head and twisting out of the stale shirt he's been sweating his way through all damn day, and aims for the hamper. It goes wide, changing course and reinventing itself around his lamp shade. Eh.

Close enough.

He wrestles into a clean plain tee, wiggles his foot around and applies pressure to the sole of his shoes with his new and improved, hardcore workout with his toes on the other, until it’s wrenched free. Switch and repeat.

He outgrew the graphic tee phase a long time ago. Now he’s more of an unshaven, permanent five o’clock shadow kind of guy. And with that comes a responsibility - nay, this calls for a much stronger noun. With that comes a _duty_ to dress solely in dark, depressing colours, like the mysterious brooding-type anti-hero in a DC film. Namely, Batman. Not Christian Bale’s Batman. A cool Batman. Think…Will Arnett’s Lego version, in the flesh.

He’s not quite at the stage of rocking a steely six-pack and washboard abs, but he thinks he pulls the look off nevertheless. And if not? Well. He’s not invested enough in said image to expend any effort in changing it.

His apartment’s a bit of a shithole. There are three rooms: kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. That’s it. He had the lease drawn up after an old buddy of his moved out of the area, onto greater and better things, and practically begged him to sublet until his contract was up. It was another favour turned disaster. One week in, he discovered, to his horror, that the place was invested with slugs. Yes, you heard that right. _Slugs_.

Soon as the sky darkens, they seep out from under the refrigerator in their hundreds - more or less - and though they’re long gone by daylight, Stiles is constantly paranoid he’s gonna squish one between his toes after stumbling in for a glass of water in the middle of the night. The worst part is when they squeeze themselves between the spaces of his tiles. Makes the little shits harder to spot.

Upside is it’s like they’re allergic to light. If he leaves the light on, it’s fine. No slimy slug trails come morning. However…with his latest predicament…Do you see how that might be a problem?

And that wasn’t the half of it.

Blown bulbs. Leaky pipes. Cracked tiles. Drafts. Mould. Creaky floorboards.

You name it, this place has it. Or, has had it. There have been many, _many_ heated exchanges with his stingy as fuck landlord. Like so many things in his life, it was only meant to be temporary. He had never intended to _live_ here. Crash here, yes. But _live_? Never even considered it. No sane person would. Not if they could afford somewhere with _actual windows_ , instead of taped-up pieces of broken glass.

Yeah. It’s that bad.

Since when was having windows considered a _luxury_?

Stiles has little interaction with the rest of the tenants in his building - for good reason - but they seem like a miserable bunch. It’s probably fair to say the state of their apartments are on par with his. Or, heaven forbid, a whole lot worse.

Did he mention this was a really, really bad neighbourhood that his father, the sheriff, had nearly gone apeshit upon learning where his only child was dwelling? Never mind how enraged he became when he saw the conditions of Stiles’ accommodation. And here’s the thing: temporary. Back then, it was _temporary_. An affordable hellhole to allow Stiles a trial-run of how he and his father would cope living apart - before he headed off to college. Well, _har, har, har_. Joke’s on him. Look how well that turned out.

Freaking irony.

The world is such an ironic piece of shit.

With some effort, Stiles wrestles the stiff lower window sash up a sliver to air out the stuffy room, then throws himself down on his couch and yelps as he lands on a loose spring. He inherited said couch when he moved in. It sags to one side and looks like it belongs in a dumpster, but Stiles has been loyal to this sorry excuse for furniture so far. What he ever do to merit this - literal - sting of betrayal?

Scowling, he rubs his injured butt with one hand and reviews the water-bill in the other.

He could dip into his savings account. Might have to, at this point. That’s if there’s much left. Between the cost of the spare parts he needed replaced in his baby, and a few unforeseen expenses here and there via the funeral arrangements, not covered by the money his father had set aside, Stiles isn’t convinced he has much more to eat into. He can hope, of course.

But hope isn’t worth a dime, in his experience.

All the hoping in the world isn’t gonna poof away the bills.

He flips through the small stack but it’s just a ton of junk mail and demands for overdue payments on his electrical company’s scam of a service, with a yellow notice warning he’ll be cut off come Monday attached with a paperclip in big, capital letters, unless he forks over what he owes - plus, a hefty late fee. Well, you know what? Screw that. This isn’t the first time Stiles has gone without power, and it won‘t be the last. Withholding their rip-off bullshit of a service isn’t gonna send him into hysterics.

Nothing beats the tragic day he had to give up Netflix.

There are worse hardships than living on take-out and cosying up under a musty quilt, reading in the glow of the candlelight.

It might, however, mean he’ll be going greasy-haired and gross to work, with his pits reeking of car freshener in a poor attempt to cover up the stench of BO, so. Maybe he should invest in an extra-strength anti-perspirant sometime in the near future. Either that, or woo some minted sucker with the burden of a inexhaustible trust-fund to blow hanging over his head, who would have no problem coughing up the resources to clear his outstanding debt. Doesn’t even have to be a millionaire; he’s flexible. Any old, irresponsible college kid with filthy rich parents would do.

Jesus. What would his dating profile say?

_Poor as fuck. Will provide mediocre blowjobs in exchange for cold, hard cash. Though I swing both ways, unfortunately I am limited both in experience and skill-set. Hurry! Offer ends soon. Rent’s due in a week and I’m down to my last packet of ramen noodles._

He may as well sign up to be a male escort. Or maybe a stripper, if they‘d have him. Would pay a helluva lot better. The price of his dignity can be a bit steep, but Stiles’ pride only takes him so far before practicality wins out. He’d rather not be slapped with an eviction notice and rendered homeless, thank-you very much. That would be the ultimate humiliation to round out an infinitely humiliating year.

Curling his arms around himself in an effort to keep warm, Stiles hauls himself up and shuffles to the cramped kitchenette. He pulls a carton of OJ from the fridge, jabbing a thumb to break the seal and chugging down a few ounces. He stuffs it between a half-empty pint of milk and three-year-old jar of pickles, wipes a stray droplet off his chin with the cuff of his hand, and studiously avoids glancing at the fridge magnets strategically clumped atop his letter.

The letter. Christ, that letter.

The one he’d so well not thinking about up until now.

Should’ve crammed it back into the envelope and tossed it out, rather than post it up on the fridge. God, what was he thinking? Stupid, _stupid_.

_Dear Mr. Stilinski_

_There have been several concerns raised regarding the results of your recent blood tests. Please return to the practise on_ Friday, 14th October at 3:30p.m. _to discuss the matter in further detail. If you are unable to make this date, please contact reception to reschedule as soon as possible. Thank you._

Kind regards

Dr. Alan Deaton.

Tomorrow. That’s tomorrow.

He’s not an idiot. He knew he was in trouble when a regular check-up turned into a series of questions regarding his eating habits, low mood, Adderal dosage, ‘coping mechanisms,’ the return of his panic attacks and their frequency, ect. Hell, Stiles knew the instant he stepped onto the scales, he was screwed.

The doctor pressed him on everything from breakfast to bowel movements, to whether or not he takes sugar in his coffee. He probed and probed and _probed_ , until Stiles couldn’t take it anymore. He fled; spluttering out some half-assed excuse in the spur of the moment as his survival instincts kicked into gear.

The letter arrived a day later.

He was a little surprised they cared enough to follow up on him. Then, again…he knew, didn’t he? The doctor knew there were things - not so nice, dangerous things - that Stiles wasn’t saying. Knew it was serious enough to warrant intervention.

And Stiles can’t have that. There’s no way he could come up with the money for a specialized treatment plan at some fancy centre if they decided to go in-patient. Which…he can’t rule out the possibility. Best case scenario, they tell him: _right, here’s a dietician. Also, this mandatory therapy crap: Go to it._ Neither of which are options, really. Who’s going to foot the bill, hmm? Not him, that‘s for sure. He’s pretty much broke for the foreseeable future.

It’s not that he doesn’t recognise the seriousness of the situation. More like, he doesn’t care.

Stiles isn’t afraid of death. Death’s easy. It would be a lot harder if he had something worth living for; worth saving himself for. He doesn’t. So there’s no conflict, not anymore.

Why should he save himself when he couldn’t save the one person who mattered most?

He never set out to become so poorly that _dying_ may become an honest-to-god possibility. He never set out to do anything. It’s not like it was part of some grand ten-step plan to go off to lala ghostyland. That’s just…a happy coincidence.

Nothing more.

Stiles has reheated Chinese food for dinner. In one awkward move, he tucks his legs underneath his ass and sits in front of the second-hand TV to enjoy the God-awful infomercials while he still can, hunched over the bowl and shovelling chow mien into his mouth, rolling his jaw to make the forkful fit and catch every last drop of soy sauce. He hates himself for it. Hates every minute of it.

He stews in his self-hatred. There ain’t anywhere for it to go but inward.

The masticated noodles rest heavily in his stomach. It’s too much, suddenly. The grease, the grief, the reminder of what his Dad couldn’t eat.

Because of Stiles. Because he was scared of losing him, because _he_ couldn’t bear to be left alone. His Dad couldn’t have takeout because Stiles wouldn’t let him. Instead, he did one better. He went off and sh-sh-shot him-

Stiles leaps up and races to the bathroom, falling to his knees and heaving over the toilet bowl.

His fingers clench around the lid, tendons standing, knuckles whitening. When it’s over, Stiles merely scrubs his mouth with the back of his wrist and settles back on his haunches. Harsh pants are torn from his lungs, and it takes a long time for his heart to stop crashing against his chest.

Rising with a slight wobble he stands on shaky legs and steadies himself with two fingers pressed to the porcelain head. Turning away, Stiles splutters out a rasping cough and hacks up phlegm. A short strip of noodle’s gotten caught in the back of his throat and he clears it repeatedly until the prickliness disappears. With a trembling hand he fumbles for the flush, and though every website he’s read on the topic advices against it, Stiles squeezes a blob of toothpaste along his brush.

He scrubs hard.

Avoiding direct eye-contact with the mirror, Stiles ducks his head and spits. Not that that’s necessary. It’s not like there’s anything to see. He slurps up a mouthful of water straight from the tap and swills it ‘round. Spits that, too.

A couple weeks back, Stiles had flung an old baby blanket of his over the pivot mirror. He’ll peel back a corner when he has to, for shaving purposes and that. But otherwise, it’s left alone. He avoids his reflection at all costs, not wanting to track the weight loss lest he find himself unable to feign ignorance any longer, or observe the sad story his face has become: Sunken, tired eyes, pallid complexion stripped of any semblance of colour, cheeks gaunt and lacking any trace of a smile.

Pathetic.

Before readying for bed, Stiles takes out a load of darks from his washing machine and hangs them around rattling radiators, struggling to heat the sub-zero apartment. By any luck, they’ll be dry come morning. Then he’ll fold them and lovingly stow them away in his drawers - oh, who’s he kidding? He’ll dump them in a pile in the corner. Grab ‘em when he needs ‘em. That’s just how he rolls.

In his room, he grabs a prescription bottle from his dresser and shakes out a sugar-coated pill. He tips his head back and swallows it dry. With any luck, that’ll knock him out cold. He’d tried taking herbal pills to help him sleep before, but turns out they’re a load of bullcrap. Another money-making scam. Not worth the half the fortune he wasted on them.

Stiles slips under unwashed sheets. He’d tempted to lean over to snatch the book he’s presently working his way through, lying open only a hairsbreadth away with its spine becoming bent and creased as he nears the third act, but decides against it. It wasn’t that interesting, from what little Stiles recalls of it. Why bother?

He tosses and turns, and beats his frumpy pillow into shape. Even with the medical-aid coursing through his blood, it’s a long time before Stiles falls asleep. He dreams of mouth-watering curly fries and gunshots ringing in his eardrums and darting through trees in Beacon hill park, and, at one point, he’s sure, he’s positive - he sees red eyes gleaming in the dark.

[ ](http://s1302.photobucket.com/user/LittleDesertRose/media/wolf%207_zps83qyr5hd.png.html)

(He was hungry, so damn hungry, and he snacked on Oreos and skittles and peanut butter straight from the jar, craving something, anything, that’ll hit the spot, but when it did, it sunk to the bottom like an anchor, ever so bitter, and he couldn’t stand it.

Mind made up, he shoved the garbage aside. Stooped over the armrest and secured the pile of wrappers hidden around the side of the couch in his fist. That was the last of that.

Stiles scrimped and saved for weeks for protein shakes. Chocolate flavour; almost like a milkshake except for the whole tasting revolting part. But they did their job. Filled him right up. He struggled to find the money to shell out for fibre-rich greens, chia seeds, flaxmeal, and berries to mix through that would continue to satiate his hunger for hours. The touch of fruit sweetened the shakes and made them much closer to bearable. But he couldn’t keep that up.

He’s the guy who stocks up on non-perishable goods like canned chicken and tuna, tinned veggies, and pots of instant chicken noodles that taste like cardboard. That’s how he _survives_.

Being the young, underpaid, strapped for cash, man that he is, Stiles amended his goals. Now, he strives for a bag of apples to munch on during his lunch break. They’re full of fibre and work as a natural appetite suppressant, so they’re ideal. Towards the end of the month, when his budget is being stretched to its very limit, Stiles is forced to rely on convenience food and ready meals.

He compensates for this by eating little. Walking to and from work. Cutting out bread and soda and as much processed sugar from his diet as he can. Over time he cuts out the cream in his morning coffee. One day he forgoes the sugar bowl and never bothers dunking into it again. Black coffee is his lifeline. He ditches fatty yoghurts, potato chips, and processed meat. He’s only marginally sad to see the curly fries go.

Stiles gets in the habit of logging his meals in a spiral notebook. Whole milk turns to slimmed milk, only to be replaced with soy milk. He concentrates on staying hydrated. Basically subsists on sparkling water.

Rolls of fat are pinched until purpling bruises blossom. The droop of his stomach disappears. Overnight, his shoulder blades spring up, caged in by pale, speckled skin; his ribs become so pronounced that he can count ‘em, while his collarbone jumps out at everyone he meets. Suddenly, co-workers can’t stop commenting on the damn things. Stiles has taken to hiking up his shirt to shield the exposed bone until they move along.

The gap beneath his crotch widens, hollowing out between his thighs. His boxer shorts are hanging off of him. Clumps of hair break away as he rakes his fingers over his head.

One less bite turns to two less bites turns to four less bites, which gets slashed to eight less bites, until pretty soon, Stiles is only allowed six bites in total before he's forced to declare himself full.

It’s fine, though. He is full. By then, he’s stuffed.)

 


	3. Chapter Two

[ ](http://s1302.photobucket.com/user/LittleDesertRose/media/wolf%2015_zpsa9r9rtob.png.html)

Friday started out like any other.

Wake up. Roll outta bed. Shove his feet into scuffed-up shoes and shuck the scuzzy sweatshirt he chooses to sleep in, in favour of his stiff work uniform. Then scraping burnt toast into the sink with a butter knife because the stupid toaster blew a fuse - naturally enough - and tossing down a bitter coffee, and praying his stomach doesn’t revolt. Good to go.

He waters his houseplant on the way out; little dude’s a fighter, to the root (ha. Get it? _Root_ ). More often than not, Stiles forgets all about the plant‘s existence. No matter how many days go by with Stiles neglecting to tend to it, it still keeps hanging on, sucking up every scrap of liquid he deems to offer within seconds. “All the respect, man,” he commends aloud. “All the respect. Sorry for almost killing you again!”

Stiles marches out the door like the obedient little trooper that he is. He decides to take the trusty ol’ motor, saying as he’ll be skipping out early for that dumb appointment. Oh, on that note. Yeah - Stiles is so not thrilled about that. The surgery actually _rang out_ this morning to verify he still planned on turning up. Like, who even does that? It’s as if they knew he was a proven flight-risk with a soft spot for old ladies who call him ‘dearie,’ or, ‘honey-bunch’ or, ‘sweet-cheeks,’ or…something.

Which…fair.

He’d considered hanging up, furious with himself for having answered in the first place. But he couldn’t. That would’ve been such a dick move. And it’s like Stiles is physically incapable of that scale of rudeness. Not to _old people_. Old _grandmas_. ‘Oh, so you’re over the age of sixty-five and on the cusp of retirement? I see. Hmm, guess it’s infallible telephone-etiquette all the way for me. How _are_ your grandkids, by the way?’

Yeah, _so_ not looking forward to that. The sooner this appointment’s over with, the better.

Anyway, Stiles is driving, because, much as he enjoys his morning strolls, there’s no point walking two or three miles to the bowling alley only to have to rush off earlier than intended so that he can get back to his apartment block in time to collect his jeep. ‘Cause he is _so_ not dragging himself all the way across town just to show up all sweaty and sickly-looking. Nuh-uh; no way. He’s in deep enough as it is.

Shoving his keys in the ignition, he tosses his arm over the head rest and throws the Jeep in reverse.

Work’s not so bad. His saving grace comes in the form of Steven, the grade-A douchebag, calling in ‘sick’ with the flu. More like he was up all night partying and is much too hungover to stomach the shrieking, cheering, spinning of pins, crack of bowling balls, or blistering strikes. For someone who acts like they‘ve got a stick up their ass 24/7, he sure spends a lot of time living it up at the Jungle.

Stiles hopes the turd-nugget enjoys spending the day puking out his guts.

He takes off early as planned. One of the cashiers at the adjoining fast food joint tries to give him shit, but he ignores the green-eyed gibes with the endlessly classy flick of the bird. ‘Sides, he has it on good authority that the a-hole’s only lashing out ‘cause he got stuck working a double. Ain’t got nothing to do with Stiles.

One bonus about picking up so many last-minute shifts - other than the extra cash flow and getting in good with the boss. Goes without saying - is that when the time comes for all those little favours to be redeemed, you’ve gotta lotta leeway with the who’s and the how’s of how you’re gonna cash ‘em in. He has his fair selection of hard-workers (okay, decent co-workers) to pick up the slack. It’s as straightforward as shooting off a text the night before, _‘you good to cover my afternoon shift 2morrow? Got a thing. Urgent-kind, crisis-type thing. won‘t be back till late. thanx’_

Wait for a reply. Scroll through your contact list for an alternative, just in case. And hey presto.

Off to the creepy doctor’s he goes.

Not that Dr. Deaton’s _creepy_. Well - he is. Stiles just gets these weird vibes from him. Like…he knows something he doesn’t. S’strange.

Not to mention, the beady eyes fixed on his every move. Man tracks everything. Truly, Stiles doesn’t mind Dr. Deaton. He’s nice enough. It’s a relatively small practise; doesn’t seem to do so well. Business must be slow getting off the ground, despite the warm, welcoming interior and general accomplished atmosphere, because the parking lot, like always, is deserted when he rolls up in his jeep. He’s never bumped into anyone inside, either; other than staff and the odd patient. The waiting area is always empty.

He was transferred here along with several others, half a dozen weeks ago. Something about inadequate care at his previous health-centre, due to overcapacity putting a strain on the service. Rumour has it, some guys got their urine samples mixed up. There was a mistaken diagnosis, a whole bunch of pissed off folks, and an investigation was launched with Beacon Hill’s director of health and human services.

That’s not even taking into account the length of the waiting list just to secure a simple appointment; how they used to fully book up within minutes of opening hours. Or the appalling attitude of the bitchy-ass administrative workers.

To make matters worse, the primary physician was pretty lousy as well. He was pretty incompetent when it came to, well, everything, Stiles recollects from his days of pestering the man with queries on behalf of his Dad and the exasperatingly unhelpful responses he was given in return. Also, the dude had super cold hands. Like, unrelated to the sub-standard level of care, but, still. Nobody likes to be pawed at with cold hands!

Moral of the story is: Stiles had hoped to fly under the radar following the news of his father’s death, but fate seemed set to intervene. Because sooner rather than later he got the call to say that Dr. Deaton had an opening, ‘ _we noticed it’s been over two years since your last check up. Would you like to drop by? Tomorrow, say?’_

Things sorta snowballed from there.

Now…here he is.

Pulling up at their friendly headquarters and helping himself to one of the finest parking spaces available.

It had been Stiles’ assumption that he was far from the first patient on their books to be on the receiving end of the pesky little phonecalls. Nothing special about it; not a single red flag erected in his head. They were probably just trying to drum up business. Target a younger demographic, earn their loyalty, expand their profit margin with the birth of their patient’s future offspring, invest in the ‘now’ to prosper in the ‘then.’ Made sense, in terms of long-term protraction. And Stiles never felt the need to question it.

_Right-eo_. Time to face the music, then.

Hopping out of his jeep and slamming the door behind him, Stiles casts his eyes across the vacant lot, locking his Baby up tight with a flick of the wrist. His eagle-eyes spy only one other vehicle parked in the visitor‘s section. Real swanky, too. Sleek, black. A Camaro, maybe? He’s certain he’s seen it around before. Man, what he wouldn’t give to take that beauty for a spin.

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Stiles takes a deep breath in and squares his shoulders, unable to dilly-dally any longer without leaving it too late.

Beyond the delayed swish of the automatic doors awaits a bracing blast of warm air and the clean scent of lemon. He has to navigate his way through a few twisty hallways, sprint up the stairs to the third floor, and roam for a bit until he reaches his destination. But that’s alright. No biggie. What’s a few more seconds to panic, right?

Using the back of his knuckles, he raps on the Plexiglas next to their cosy waiting room at the front desk, while he waits to check in. There are children’s drawings littering the pale calamine walls, a couple delicate abstract prints hang up that likely cost a small fortune, along with squashy throw cushions nestled on top a plush loveseat, next to which sits a coffee table littered with magazines and informational leaflets with titles he can‘t decipher from so far away.

In the corner, a treasure chest lies open with a scattering of abandoned toys somebody seems to have played with recently. Above which rests a humming aquarium with shimmering tropical fish darting about inside. All very…warm. Family-friendly, springs to mind. Current, too. If a bit…child-centred?

The receptionist pauses mid-typing in order to direct Stiles towards a bleak-looking machine that he had, by no small miracle, failed to notice on the way in. They must be one of those places that have upgraded in recent years to incorporate interactive touch-screen systems in order to reduce paperwork, or free up secretaries to man the phones, or ruin innocent people’s lives, or - something. Point is, they were introduced for the sole purpose of speeding shit along, but, par for the freakin’ course, they have the _exact opposite_ effect.

Stupid things never seem to work. Usually, employees are forced to manually input all personal details on their computers to confirm a patient’s attendance themselves because the damn thing’s frozen. _Again_. And they’re. _So. Sloooww_. Takes them forever to process a basic request.

Heaving a put-upon sigh, he selects his name - ugh, his _real_ name - and date of birth. Aaaannddd…nothing. He gives it a few more jabs. The sensor doesn’t pick up real well, so he’s gotta stab it repeatedly, unrelentingly, before it finally accepts his instruction. Useless, shitty, good for nothing, goddamn -

He doesn’t realise he’s been grumbling under his breath - snarky little comments that frequently wrangle their way out of his mouth without his knowledge - and banging on the side of the electrical device in frustration, as if to jolt it back to functionality, until a soft bark of laughter catches his attention.

Oh, _helllloooo_. There’s a man there. (When the _hell_ did he get here?)

Mid-twenties. Tall, dark, and handsome. Typical.

He’s staring. The man; not Stiles. Though…yeah, Stiles, too, he guesses. Is that normal? That can’t be normal. Guys like _that,_ do not - as a general rule - look at Stiles like _that_.

Yet. Stiles _did_ just make a fool outta himself in public after assaulting an automated machine, so…anything‘s possible? Maybe the dude is just having a good laugh to himself about what a hideous clown he is.

And, yet…there’s something in his gaze; something dark and personal and… _weird_. An unwavering intensity bearing down on Stiles and Stiles alone. It’s…

_Phew_.

Chills, man. He got chills.

A flicker of recognition kindles in the back of his mind, but before he has the chance to tease it out, Stiles hears his name being called, telling him to report to treatment room 3. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he turns on his heel. And - there it is again. That feeling of…missing something.

With one last puzzled glance Stiles departs.

Rubbing his forearms in an attempt to chase away the goose-bumps, he attempts to swallow back his unease only to find that his throat is suddenly parched. The weight of those eyes, electric blue and flashes of green and exquisite mystery that begs to be _seen_ , never wavers from the taut line of his shoulders as he walks away as fast as his legs can carry him.

[ ](http://s1302.photobucket.com/user/LittleDesertRose/media/wolf%2016_zpslhrgj8rv.png.html)

Derek’s nervous.

The hand clenched around an 8oz ripple paper-cup is stricken by pathetic tremors. It had been thrust into his hands by Cora before she’d gone bounding off to her morning _Intro to Women Studies_ class. It had been accompanied by a scornful huff and most impressive eye roll, with Derek merely staring at the offering in confusion. “Take it, you big doofus,” Cora scowled, shoving it forward and accidentally splashing her older brother with a face-full of scalding coffee. Right on his good side, too. Thank God he heals fast. Otherwise, he’d be pissed. As it so happens, Derek was more concerned with the damp patch on his jeans.

“Trust me, you’re gonna need it. Gotta steel the nerves somehow.”

She received a grunt in response.

“Don’t give me that. You’re a mess.” She rolled her eyes again. “Drink it. Now.”

Then his little sister clapped him on the shoulder, grinned, and added, “Good luck,” before making herself scarce.

If anything, Derek muses, the caffeine hit only served to make him all the more keyed up. It’s heavily watered down, but there‘s enough of a kick in it to exacerbate his case of pre-meeting jitters. The resulting effect tastes bland, sour notes that leave behind a horrid aftertaste while maintaining a gritty texture that is distinctly unpleasant. He’d expect nothing less from an instant coffee straight out of a vending machine. He’d used the end of a ballpoint pen to give it a stir, hoping it’d help. It didn’t.

Derek takes another dreg to finish it off, then crushes the cup and dumps it in the waste bin. He shifts restlessly in the hard plastic chair, leaning forward with his elbows rested upon his knees. Unbeknownst to him, his head tips forward to meet his clasped hands, where his fingers swiftly knot in his gelled hair. It soon snaps up, however, the second his ear pick up on the sound of a familiar heartbeat. _The_ heartbeat. It seems to him that the air crackles in anticipation, shivering, thrumming, across the land birds start singing, as he sucks in a breath, gaze glued to the door.

 Moments later - an eternity later - it bangs open.

 In stomps Stiles.

 Sweet, young Stiles, sporting his nasty work attire - a cheap black polo shirt that must feel like sandpaper against his sensitive skin, wrinkled polyester pants, and a beat up pair of Chuck’s that have most definitely seen better days - with his brown hair pushed back as though all he’s done is worry his fingers through it all day long.

 Derek shifts forward and keenly observes as he attempts to catch the receptionist’s attention. When she snaps her fingers and directs him towards the automated machine, Derek must stifle a chuckle at the dark look that crosses the youngster’s face. Stiles prods the screen, growing increasingly more ill-tempered at the lack of response as his poking becomes more and more violent. It reminds Derek of a frustrated toddler trying to jam a square block into a circular slot.

 Adorable.

 His snappy remarks become louder and more unintelligible as they’re forced between gritted teeth the longer he goes without progress.

 Derek is transfixed; a small, fond little smile pushing its way up his cheeks.

 How he has longed for this moment. This moment, right now, how long has he waited for it? Plotting and planning everything down to the very last detail, and making sure everything is perfect, absolutely perfect, for his little bundle of joy?

 Too long.

 Not long enough.

 He deserves no less than the best. Derek plans to give Stiles everything he’s got. From the moment he laid eyes on him, he knew he was in love. He could scarcely think of anything else. Those whiskey eyes; that quick as a whip mind, his silver tongue. What could Derek do but succumb?

Far too soon Stiles must leave for his appointment. But, no matter. He’ll see him again soon enough. When Nurse Aubrey calls for him, he drags the diaper bag he’d packed out from under his chair and rises to his feet. Derek lets loose a sharp smile.

It’s time.

[ ](http://s1302.photobucket.com/user/LittleDesertRose/media/wolf%205_zpswajiica7.png.html)

“So, Doc. What‘s the verdict?”

Deaton tugs out the stethoscope’s ear pieces and half smiles, not unkindly. “Not good.”

Stiles ducks his head and scratches behind his ear. “Yeah?”

“Heart rate’s a little slow. Not too much to be overly concerned. However, I’ll need to check your blood pressure for a more accurate assessment.” He straps the cuff around Stiles‘ upper arm and pumps the gauge in his hand, inflating the cuff until it is squeezing his arm uncomfortably tight. Curt pants of air are released, Dr. Deaton’s lips purse, and Stiles tries not to fidget in agitation. It feels to him his heart is battering harder than ever at the doc’s proximity and penetrating gaze that seems to see straight through all of his quick witted quips and false confidence.

The doctor takes several readings, set minutes apart. Stiles idly swings his legs while he waits, barely restraining himself from clicking his tongue. He never was very good at sitting still.

Finally, Deaton sighs. “Bit on the low side. Nothing I wasn’t expecting.”

“And?” Stiles prompts, straightening. “I‘m sensing there‘s more.”

“I’d like to get a full blood work done. Your haemoglobin count is likely depleted. It’s worth checking your ferritin stores to judge the extent of your anaemia. What’s more, it may be of benefit for you to get tested for any sign of an autoimmune disease, so that we can rule out malabsorption.”

“That sounds, um, fine, I guess.” Stiles frowns, watching as he snaps on a fresh pair of sanitary gloves and retrieves a couple of clear tubes from his top desk drawer. “You - you’re doing it now?”

“That would be best. Roll up your sleeve, if you may.”

He sterilizes a patch of skin. Then tucks a pillow under Stiles’ arm and secures a tourniquet above the elbow. Being familiar with the procedure, Stiles clenches his fingers into a tight fist as the older man lines up the needle, prodding a bulging vein and apparently deeming it up to standard. “This might sting a little,” he warns.

“I can handle it.” Stiles grits his teeth and hisses as he feels the needle give. In stereotypical medical fashion, Dr. Deaton scrawls his personal details on a few sticky labels in this inscrutable chicken scratch to peel off and enfold around the sample bottles.

Stiles raises a bemused brow when he pats an Iron-man themed band-aid over the puncture wound, but the man is busy disposing of the red-spotted gauze and misses the perplexed look.

“If you don’t mind,” Dr. Deaton broaches with his back still turned, clicking a cabinet open and angling his head to survey its contents, “I noticed from your files that your immunizations are in need of a renewal. I‘d be happy to do so now. In fact, I’d strongly encourage it.”

“Today?” he blurts, gaping. Stiles knows his startled tone borders on rude, but he can’t help it. Surely this isn’t standard protocol? Jesus. Give a guy a little warning. “Can you do that?”

“With all due respect, Mr. Stilinski,” he can hear the smile in his voice, “considering your history, I’m not entirely certain if I can trust you to return.”

Oh. Well, er.

Can’t argue with that.

“Don’t you need to…I don’t know, prepare?”

“Not at all. It should only take a moment.”

His forehead pinches at the cavalier tone - _too_ cavalier, a voice whispers - and Stiles feels a trickle of reservation. Then again, that could just be the beads of sweat gathering between his brows. He’s not exactly a huge fan of injections. “Y-yeah. Sure,” he agrees weakly, nails digging into the examination table’s leather padding.

Dr. Deaton primes the injection site with an alcohol swab, allowing it to dry while he fills the needle with fluids from a clear vial. He flicks the syringe, dispersing air bubbles.

Stiles winces, every muscle in his body seizing up, and breathes steadily through the great heave of nausea that bubbles up his throat as Deaton depresses the plunger and he feels the crisp nip, dispensing the first round in what proves to be a lengthy series of shots.

“Hold, please,” Deaton instructions when it‘s over at last, passing over a cottonball to stanch the bleeding. Moments later, he returns with another Avengers band-aid to paste over the top.

“So…that it?” Stiles swiftly rolls down his sleeves. “I’m free to go?”

“Not quite, Mr. Stilinski,” the older man replies, mouth tucked in an apologetic frown. “I’m afraid we still have one more assessment to carry out before we call Daddy in.”

He swears everything whites out for a second. Over the sudden ringing in his ears, his voice sounds like it‘s coming from very far away as he stammers, “…Ex-excuse m-me? You know I‘m over eighteen, right? And my Dad-” Stiles shakes his head and ignores the painful lurch of his heart. He's so stunned, Stiles forgets to be embarrassed by the way his voice cracks. He swallows thickly and tries again, “M-my dad, he‘s g-”

“Waiting outside; rather impatiently, I hear. Shall I have Nurse Aubrey bring Daddy in? You’ve met her before, haven’t you? Not to worry, she’s absolutely lovely.”

“Look, I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing, but I want no par-”

“Ah,” Dr. Deaton breathes at the unclick of the latch. “There he is. Fantastic timing.” He grins at the man standing there. The same man. From before. “Derek, please, come in. Shut the door.”

 

[ ](http://s1302.photobucket.com/user/LittleDesertRose/media/wolf%2020_zpsmpwsslaa.png.html) 

(“Derek…I have to ask,” Deaton murmured, all those many months ago. “Are you _absolutely_ sure you want to go through with this?”

“Yes,” he answered at once. “Him. I want him.” He’s been fantasizing about this since he was sixteen, nearing seventeen. Ever since that fateful day he was stalking off the field in the pouring rain, face set in stone, after Laura had promised to wait around until practise was over to take him home, but had gone to hang out at some jerk’s basement with a group of wannabe rockers to listen to them rehearse, instead. First day back and already she was ditching him. He shoulda known better; should’ve insisted he be the one to drive and withheld the keys for ransom.

He’d remember that next time.

Derek was grumbling to himself, cursing his fickle sister to the fieriest pits of hell as he mentally prepared himself for the long - miserable - trek home, becoming more and more drenched by the minute. He roughly adjusted his gym bag from where it was slung around his right shoulder and deepened his murderous scowl. Derek was so busy plotting Laura's untimely demise that his heightened senses didn’t even hear the police cruiser slow behind him.

“Need a ride?” an authoritative voice called out. He spun around sharply, squinting through the murky downpour. “You’re one of Talia Hale’s kids, right? Derek, is it?”

He nodded, curt. “That’s right, sir. Second eldest.”

Derek kept his demeanour respectful. He dropped the menacing scowl and erased all sign of homicidal intention from his features. Chosen form of transportation aside, he recognised the Sheriff when he saw him. Warm blue eyes, touched by the early stages of laugh-lines that had been halted indefinitely by the purest form of ripe, enduring grief. No confusing it.

Same look Peter got after the loss of his wife.

“Well?” The man rolled his eyes. “What are you waiting for? Hop in. Stiles, scoot over. Give the poor boy some room.”

It was then that Derek noticed the small, wide-eyed boy staring right at him from the backseat. Hesitating for only a second or two, he shrugged and slid in, door closing behind him with a soft thud. His shoes squelched. Shuffling in discomfort, Derek slicked his dark hair back in an effort to reduce the steady dripping onto the leather upholstery and secured his belt.

The silence was stifling.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you, sir. I really appreciate this.”

“No problem, son. Anything for Talia. Did y‘know she used to be close friends with my wife? Lovely woman. Highly respected. Can‘t get enough of her down at the station.”

Sure, it might’ve been a tad awkward. But, hey. It beat suffering the wrath of his mother - who would surely chide him for being so reckless and allowing himself to get soaked to the bone, despite being entirely out of his control, and, oh, the little known fact that, yeah - no harm done. Werewolves can’t get sick. He was still her precious son. And, as such, she was well within her rights to go a little overboard with the mother-hen routine.

Don’t get him wrong. Derek still planned on sending her on the warpath. It’s just…her anger wouldn’t be directed towards him.

Laura was so dead…

The kid - Stiles. He was still gawking. Huddled up in the corner like he was scared Derek was gonna bite. He supposed it was understandable. He could be quite intimidating when he wanted to be. For some reason, Derek felt the need to put the kid at ease. So he gave him a small smile and watched as the tension was sapped from the boy’s shoulders. He was soon talking. There was no beginning. There was no end. Only a long spew of words. Grand tales spun at such a rapid rate that Derek feared he might pass out from the strain.

But, no. That motor-mouth never stopped running.

He hated to admit it, but Derek found it rather…endearing. Cute, even.

Something about the prepubescent boy reeled him in. He was caught in the intangible net of none other than cheeky Stiles Stilinski, helpless to resist. In that instant, Derek was smitten. The snarling wolf within could not - would not - be denied.

_Mine_.

Ever since then, Derek’s been head over heels in love with that babbling, flailing freshman, with his lily-white skin and delicious, caramelised perfume. Beautiful boy; perfect boy. He kept his distance, the ache in his chest strengthening as he bore witness to his baby boy’s one-sided pining and inevitable heartache from afar. His losses, his tragedies, his near-constant setbacks - they each carved out raw, gaping wounds for Derek to swoop in and patch him back up.

He never did.

Instead, Derek waited. He plotted. He planned.

It pierced his heart to watch his baby boy grow up ( _not for long,_ he comforted himself) _._ To see his bright eyes lose their innocent sheen; to be replaced by this awful, bitter hardening.

Derek did what he could. Lent a helping hand when he deemed fit. When his best friend, Scott, was bitten by a rogue Alpha, Derek wasted no time stepping in and initiating him into the pack—With a price.

Leave Stiles. Leave it all behind. Until it’s time.

Derek set his plans in motion with Scott standing right there at his side.

He wanted to hold Stiles, brush away his salty tears. He wanted to protect him. From the peril of his own shadow, if he could. Derek wanted to mark that sallow flesh. Dress him in nothing but his heady scent. Wanted him for himself. To take him where no-one else could ever find him. Ever harm him again.

He didn’t care what he had to do, or how morally questionable the methods of achieving his dream. He needed this child.

This child was his.)

 

 


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe me, I wish I had completed this chapter earlier, but due a major personal crisis, it was next to impossible.
> 
> Please enjoy. Try not to be too disappointed.

[ ](http://s1302.photobucket.com/user/LittleDesertRose/media/wolf%206_zpsuf67cc9b.png.html)

The wet click of his throat is deafening in the silent room. Static buzzes in his ears, a dark frown cutting into his bewildered features. His tongue sticks to the roof his mouth and he peels it away, prepares a fortifying breath— 

“Look who it is!” Deaton‘s overly cheerful voice shatters his reverie like a clap of thunder. “Can you tell me who that is? Who it is, Stiles? Who?”

No, it can’t be. Not—

“Der-derrhhh…? Deh… _errr._.. _d-ddaher_ -” His tongue is heavy and laden, like lead. It flops around poorly crafted words, stifling and useless. His speech is slurred like a brainless drunkard.

“Who’s here, Stiles? Is that your Dada? Who’s here? Dada’s here!”

Derek. Der-

“-Kkkkk.” He could scream with frustration. “Daaahh-”

_“That’s right,”_ Dr. Deaton crows. His voice rings out, proud and victorious. “Daddy’s here! Clever boy; say hi to Daddy. He‘s come such a long way to see you.”

Not Derek Hale. Please, God. _Anyone_ but Derek Hale.

This is not happening.

Stiles refuses - didja hear that, fuckers? Stiles _refuses_ to believe that—There is no way that Derek _I-fuck-you-not_ Hale, the guy his Dad fawned over, damn-near gone into raptures over. Who the Sheriff defended at every corner against narrow-minded snobs that sought to dub him a no-good, juvenile delinquent. Who Stiles only ever caught glimpses of in passing. Who he hasn’t seen in over four years, much less spoken to.

There is _no way_ that goddamn, sanctified, don’t-judge-a-book-by-its-cover prodigy is standing in front of him right now toting a diaper bag and mile-wide, dare-he-say _besotted_ smile.

“There’s my little ray of sunshine,” Derek - Derek _Hale_ \- beams, starting towards him. Stiles scrambles back, only to suffer a violent collision with the rock-hard examination table, leaving him sprawled on his ass and scrabbling madly for purchase.

In all the commotion, it seems he’d sprung up - a valiant, if futile effort, in retrospect. Now, his knees wobble before he’s even hauled himself halfway to his feet and Stiles finds himself slipping and sliding like a newborn calf using his gangly appendages for the first time. Suddenly, it occurs to him that his muscles are weaker than an itty bitty kitten‘s, shaky and unstable like a plate of jello, as if a light summer breeze would be the death of him. Stiles clutches onto the adjustable metal stirrups and hangs on for dear-life. His breathing ramps up and his head spins as Stiles comes to grips with the fact he’s trapped.

“Is Stiles not happy to see Daddy?” Derek faux-pouts, looking, for all of the world, _amused_. Deeply, profoundly, amused. Like Stiles is a toddler he‘s interrupted having a blast during playtime in the heart of the sandpit.

That has Stiles casting critical eyes over his would-be captor. He starts at the bulging diaper bag swaying absent-mindedly in the man’s lax grip, heart stuttering, and painstakingly pans his gaze up to rest at the tiny smirk playing at his lips.

The bastard is handsome in that unattainable, Superman-meets-Hercules, knockout movie-star kinda way. All chiselled jaw-line dusted with stubble, wide, sloping shoulders, and short-sleeved Henley stretched over perfectly sculpted abs. And those lips…those lips should come with an R-rating. Just saying.

Stiles swallows convulsively. He screws his eyes shut and tries to focus. Tries to _understand_.

This can’t be real. He’s trippin’ balls, man. He has to be. High off his face on pain-relievers or some shit. That’s the only explanation. Why else would Mr. Sex Symbol himself be advancing towards him like Stiles is an injured baby bird he’s trying his damn hardest not to spook? Calling himself _Daddy_ like it’s the most natural thing in the world?

“M‘not-” He shakes his head and squints in concentration, thoughts fuzzy. Sentences garbled. “Just…just leh m’go.” _Please let me go._ “Whah’re you—?”

Derek takes advantage of his scatterbrained state to hoist him up by the armpits as if he weighs less than a sack of potatoes. _“_ Noh! _Noh!”_ Stiles shrieks with renewed vigour, calling upon all of his diluted strength so as to thrash against the toned arms that seek to detain him. “Gerr _offf!_ Leh me go! Thah fuhh are yoh-?!”

“Shhhh. It‘s alright. You‘re safe now. Daddy‘s got you.”

Bracing one hand behind them, Derek hops up onto the exam table and brackets Stiles with his legs, hooking Stile‘s legs around his back so that he is facing him head-on. Stiles rears back as Derek drops a chaste kiss on his crown and his lips shape a soft smile. Voice wrapped in comforting tones, he continues churning out empty reassurances and ignores all of Stiles’ mangled protests.

_Well, screw him if he thinks I’m going down without a fight_ , comes Stiles’ next train of thought. He entertains wild fantasies of breaking free and drawing inspiration from the countless techniques drummed into him during his father’s Thursday afternoon self-defence lessons intended to inflict maximum damage and incapacitate his attacker.

He nixes that idea almost immediately.

Look at him—dark tee contouring hulking muscles; lean, lissome form, and pulsating aura of strength and stamina. There’s no way Stiles is gonna be able to overpower this dude. Deaton - he could take. Derek, on the other hand? That’s a whole other ballgame.

What is he on, anyway? Some illicit, homespun steroid cooked up by a low-life stoner making a killing from his basement? Face it: When it comes to cool hair, potent scary-glares, and skinny-dipping in freaky, mutated gene-pools, the dude got lucky.

Besides, Stiles is winded just jiggling his arms a little. He has the core strength of a fluffy bunny, at most. His breaths are thin and reedy, and Stiles is sure his wind-pipes have all but gone and shrivelled up in horror.

“ _Off!_ ” Still, he struggles fruitlessly against the iron-grip, numb legs flying with all the grace and precision of an inebriated grizzly. “Leh _go_.” The top of his head comes a hairsbreadth away from bonking the other man in the jaw but Derek swerves out of the way just in the nick of time and expels a muted laugh.

“Uh-oh,” he intones, “Does Stiles have a big ol’ case of the grumpies?” A large hand splays across his back. Derek bounces him gently on his knee and pats his back in a mindless rhythm. “That’s okay. Daddy knows how hard this is for his baby boy. Those nasty doctor-owies are never any fun, are they?”

“Unfortunately, pleasant or not, they‘re a necessary evil,” Deaton chuckles, as if there is nothing at all abnormal about seeing a young man pushing twenty seated in the lap of a scruffy older dude who tickles his side and joggles his knee in some bizarre attempt to lighten his mood. “Do you want to tell Daddy all the things we've done today, or shall I?” The doctor‘s bubbly, cadenced voice draws Stiles out of the sluggish trance he‘s fallen into.

He turns to him with a slow frown, attempting to school his facial features into something a little less gaping simpleton and a little more _I-will-slaughter-you-and-everything-you-hold-dear-bitches_. It’s like battling through a heavy fog.

Hopeless.

“I hope he wasn’t giving you any trouble.”

Derek ruffles his hair and gazes down at him fondly, leaving his hand rested on the small of his neck as his thumb revolves in lazy, calming circles. He pauses only to reach into his back pocket and extract a tattered Kleenex to mop up the trail of drool that is trickling helplessly down Stiles’ chin.

“Oh, not at all. He was perfectly behaved, weren’t you, little buddy?” The doctor chucks him under the chin.

Stiles doesn’t know what in God’s name is going on, but, if for no other reason than for the way that Deaton has ceased to acknowledge him as a sane, fully-fledged, fully-comprehending man, Stiles knows he better afraid. Be terrified. It’s like the cultured - if a tad aloof - man he had been conversing with for the past half-hour has fallen victim to a spontaneous brain transplant, or been covertly supplanted with a creepy, cooing pod person. Fuck knows why.

“So.” Derek snaps to attention at the abrupt change in manner. Gone is the cheery pseudo-paediatrician, to be replaced with a cool, unflappable professional.

“I’ve given him all the usual shots,” Deaton informs him, rolling backwards on his low-set office chair towards his desk in order to bring up his records on the computer.

“Paralytic agents, muscle relaxants, diuretics, laxatives,” he ticks off neutrally. “The whole lot. Of course, some of these - such as the drugs which target the language centres of the brain to impair speech and muddle thought process - will take a bit longer to take full effect. They’re degenerative, meaning that the effects will only ever get worse. Don’t panic if he’s still stringing sentences together after day-three. I guarantee you’ll notice a significant  improvement before the week-one mark. By week-three I guarantee you’ll have forgotten there was ever a problem to begin with. Then it‘s up to you whether or not you wish to build on that or leave as is. Alongside these, I’ve administered a low-grade sedative to help keep him calm. That‘ll kick in within the hour.”

“That’s wonderful. Thank you, Deaton. Anything else I should keep in mind?”

“Well, as I‘m sure you recall from our earlier discussions, Stiles is dangerously underweight. I recommend you start him on those supplements I suggested as soon as possible until I give the okay to stop. There‘s also that popular brand of hair removal cream I mentioned before. Would you like me to write it down for you?”

“That won’t be necessary. I stocked up after our last consultation.”

“Glad to hear it. Apply generously, rinse after twenty minutes. Refer to the instructions on the back before usage, if you’re unsure. The hair should fall away naturally on its own, but you may want to take matters into your own hands. Many of my patients find the process rather…upsetting, as you can imagine.”

Derek nods, brows pinched in sympathy. Whether it‘s feigned or not, is neither here nor there.

“Of course.”

Throughout their conversing, Stiles’ arms and legs have been getting heavier and heavier. He keeps expecting to get pins and needles like he would had they just naturally gone to sleep, but the familiar sensation never comes. All he’s left with is a vague impression of queasiness and crippling fatigue.

His head lolls forward like a dead weight, hitting against Derek’s chest. Chuckling low in his throat, Derek cups the back of his head and manually guides it towards his shoulder so that Stiles has no choice but to lie pillowed there, inhaling his natural scent. He smells of something warm and woodsy. Stiles thinks he detects a whiff of hazelnut coffee. It‘s nice. “There we go,” he hums. “Much better.”

Stiles doesn’t answer. Nor is he required to.

His lids slide half-shut. The following block of conversation is lost to the roar of Stiles’ pulse in his ears as he internally panics at the loss of movement and resulting defencelessness. An overwhelming drowsiness descends upon his prone form as he‘s manoeuvred this way and that. Poked and prodded among rudimentary conversation about infantile reflexes and response times, to the other men‘s satisfaction.

When he next comes to - semi-lucid, if locked in his head - it is to an inquisitive: “Do you have all of the correct paperwork with you?”

Nodding, Derek bends down to unzip his diaper bag one-handed; the other never pausing in its soothing administrations, rubbing Stiles‘ back.

“Right here.” He rummages through the plump bag, extracting a thick sheaf of papers from what appears to be a swollen manila folder. Stiles catches only a ephemeral peek of it before it disappears from his view. However, what little he does see, puzzles and perturbs him deeply.

“Everything’s here? Insurance card? Medical records? Letter of authorization from the trust?” Dr. Deaton fires off questions without sparing a glance, as he rifles through the pristine bundle.

If he had to guess, Stiles would say the papers are old, well-thumbed, but evidently considered of great importance to their keeper—spared from the shabby, dog-eared and spilled coffee-stained fate which would have most certainly befallen them had the contents fallen into Stiles’ frenzied hands.

Deaton scans each document briefly, a small crease folded between his brows. Under his breath, he mutters low enough that Stiles finds himself leaning forward in Derek‘s protective grasp (careful to keep him from toppling too far), straining to spot something - anything - that might shed some light on this bizarre transaction. (Is that the right word? Stiles sure feels like it.)

“Everything appears to be in order. Registration number...personal references…financial records…—Excellent. That’s everything. I‘ll have Deirdre at reception make some copies and mail these back to you within three days.”

“It’s no problem. I’m in no real hurry.”

“Alright. Great.” Deaton stows the papers away in an orderly pigeonhole and spins around to face Derek with a sigh. “Now that that’s taken care of, there’s just one more thing.”

Derek’s hand immediately snakes up to stroke Stile’s hair. “What’s that?”

Cheek squashed against the psycho’s firm, strapping chest, Stiles can only slump into him further, too exhausted to object to the - quite frankly pleasurable - treatment.

“Well. I was just about to proceed with the micro-chipping before you arrived. Standard procedure, you see. Nothing worth agonizing over.”

Stiles stiffens. As does Derek, he notes, with mild surprise.

Mirco— _What_?

“I see.” Derek‘s voice is tight, strained. “The insertion…it won’t hurt him, will it?”

“At the point of implantation, he should feel a slight pinch.” Deaton’s face twists into a small, regretful grimace. “But you have nothing to fear, Derek. Honestly. It won’t be any worse than having his blood drawn.”

At that, Derek visibly relaxes, a sudden whoosh of air emptying his lungs. Relief washes over his face.

“So. Shall I proceed, or…?”

Deaton leaves it up to him to decide. Doesn’t even glance at Stiles.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s fine. Go ahead. Do whatever you need to do. Sooner we get this over with, the better.” Stiles couldn’t agree more. Of course, that is to say whatever fresh hell he’s found himself in, but details, details.

Derek cuddles Stiles close as the doctor nears, and the younger man swears he hears a low, threatening rumble emanating from his upper body. Swears he feels the vibrations tickle his insides where he‘s pressed up against him. But Deaton doesn’t react. Doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. “May I?” he asks, sounding tentative, but Stiles is lost as to deciphering what on earth he‘s referring to.

“I’ll do it,” Derek answers, gruff. Stiles is taken aback when he begins tugging his polo shirt up and over his head, tearing it from his body. He balls it up and tosses the article aside like it’s diseased, nose wrinkled in exaggerated abhorrence. He then lifts Stiles’ leg and gently eases one sneaker off, followed by the other, relieving them from his grip with what could be mistaken for a shudder.

Jeez. Stiles may not be into big name brands like some people - mostly due to, you know, limited funds, and all that - but seriously?

Dramatic much?

“Do you need those?” Deaton jerks his chin from where he stands a foot away, coolly observing. Again, Stiles is confused. “Or have you a change of clothes?”

“These,” Derek retorts, with a slight uptick of the mouth, “Will sooner _burn_.” He flicks open the button on Stiles’ pants, who doesn’t have time to get flustered or shove off invasive hands before they’re being impatiently shoved down slim, white calves along with the gray boxer shorts he‘d selected with care this morning.

“Let’s get you out of these horrible, icky, big boy clothes,” Derek tuts in—sympathy? Pity? Comfort, maybe? Presumably, this is directed at Stiles, while he controls another goddamn shudder. Who can only frown up at him blearily; in a little naked daze of someone who has yet to comprehend the state of their nakedness.

Before resigning them to the same, sorry fate as the others, Derek dips a hand into Stiles’ stolen pants and fishes out his mesh of keys. “I’ll have somebody come tow his Jeep later,” he assures Deaton. The pants, as predicted, are chucked aside. “Should be no later than six, but I make no promises. You know what they‘re like. Never on time, that lot.”

“Send Isaac. His shift starts at five. He’s a good kid; I‘ll have him drop it up with you after he‘s finished sterilizing the equipment.”

“That would be perfect. Lord knows I need something to keep him occupied for a few hours, while I get Stiles here settled  in. He is _way_ too overexcited. I don’t want him scaring the cub.”

Before he knows it, Stiles has been stripped of all of his clothing (and his beloved Roscoe). Lying stark naked atop one of the most striking men he’s ever seen. Who—

Who.

What the fuck is he doing now?

Oh, no.

Oh. _Hell, no._

From what seems like thin air, Derek produces a lush cream ‘ _I <3 Daddy’ _footed sleeper, which he doesn’t hesitate to coax Stiles’ unwilling limbs into. He takes his time, breathing - sniffing? - in the hollow of his throat and tracing each individual splattering of moles as if he had them memorized years before. The material feels sinfully soft against his skin, like being swathed in the finest of silks and satins, though Stiles knows it‘s only cotton. 100% cotton, perhaps. But nothing extravagant.

Nothing to stop Stiles from grunting and kicking his uncooperative legs to voice his displeasure, scowling murderously.

“Aww _ww_ ,” Derek croons, positively _melting_. “Aren’t you just the sweetest. Daddy could just eat you up, yes, I could. Daddy can’t wait to show off his yummy-nummy baby.” He blows a raspberry on his stomach and chuckles as Stiles tries to squirm away. A deliriously happy grin splits the man’s face, making Stiles’ breath catch in his throat. For a moment, his mind goes blank, allowing Derek to button up the back of the oversized onesie without hassle. He flips the trim collar and brushes down the creases. Then, Derek catches Stiles’ eye and his motions are brought to a brief standstill.

His face gentles.

Swirls of unbearably warm blues and soft green hues cause the strangest swooping sensation in Stiles‘ stomach the longer they stay like that, frozen, just staring at each other.

He’s gotta know, right? It’s ludicrous to suggest otherwise. Derek’s _bound_ to have recognised him - surely? He’s unforgettable! And not in a, _wow, check out the mighty-fine ass on that_ , sorta way. More like, _Christ, does he ever shut up,_ sort of way. What are the chances that Derek is ignorant of just what breed of freak he’s got cradled between his crotch?

I mean. What right does he have to _look_ like that, as if he’s peering into Stiles’ soul, all starry-eyed and smitten? That's right. None. None whatsoever.

Deaton clears his throat, and Derek blinks, spell broken.

“He’s going to be such a Daddy’s boy,” the doc chuckles. “I can tell.”

Derek lights up. “You think so?”

“Oh, most definitely.”

Derek’s answering smile - oh, hell. There’s no other way of describing it. It’s goofy as all hell. Blinding in its radiance. He returns to the task at hand; for some peculiar reason, leaving the final two buttons undone. Stiles shivers at the cold air nipping at his bare neck and unconsciously burrows into Derek‘s side for warmth. His smile, if possible, brightens that much more. It’s…embarrassing.

To Stiles’ utter horror and revulsion, the outfit is garnished with a matching checker hat and topped off with a pair of cotton, check-and-suede, soft booties, which no amount of flailing will dissuade Derek from cramming his feet into. Unfortunately, all of this nakedness and cooing and confusingly comfortable babyish garments has distracted Stiles from the exchange’s original purpose. It’s only when he sees the doc come forward wielding a capped needle that Stiles freaks. the fuck. out.

His fury blazes anew.

What more can they possibly do to him? Hasn’t he suffered enough at their hands? Is it really necessary to _tag him_ like the common mutt? Isn’t the blasted onesie enough?

His breath whistles in his chest and he recognises the signs of an oncoming panic attack—Great, gulping gasps for breath and stick-thin tubes for airways. But Derek, he -

Stops it, somehow. In its tracks.

“Shhhh,” the older man rocks him from side to side and kisses his cheek, holding him tight against him. “It’s okay. Hold still. Nearly done, promise.”

Deaton quickly and painlessly inserts the needle between the jut of his shoulder blades. It slips under the skin without issue. And, all of a sudden, horribly, mortifyingly, Stiles does something no-one, least of all himself, expects.

He opens his mouth—

And promptly bursts into tears.

Okay, so it’s more of a miserable, muffled whimper than a full-blown screeching howl. But it’s the principle of the thing. In no shape of form did Stiles sign up to be this sad, simpering mess. The sheer loss of control over his emotions is something he wouldn’t wish upon his worst enemy. Not even Steven.

…Okay, maybe Steven.

“Oh, my poor baby.” Derek rains down a torrent of guilt-filled kisses. “Daddy’s so, so sorry. He knows it’s not nice. If there were any other way-”

Weary, broken sobs bubble up his raspy throat and out his babbling mouth, and there’s very little Stiles can do to keep them in check. “Isshh noh—” What? Fair? No, it’s not. “I noh—” Who’s? Derek‘s? No, he’s not.

Stiles hiccups.

He feels wrung out and overwhelmed. Big, fat tears rolling down his cheeks are the least of his problems, as far as he’s concerned. Turns out, being held against your will really takes it out of you. Go figure.

Strictly speaking, the shot didn’t…hurt, as such, but it felt _weird_ , and he _didn’t like it_. What’s more, from the corner of his eye, Stiles is certain he had seen biting threads of black lapping at Derek’s arm at the exact point of implantation that ebbed away into nothing more than flushed skin as Deaton withdrew. But that’s impossible, isn’t it? Absurd. It’s the tiredness. Plus, whatever drugs they’ve abused to compromise his self-will. Making him imagine things. Seeing stuff that’s not there. As per frickin’ usual—What else is new?

Over Stiles’ head, Derek nods to Dr. Deaton. The doctor passes over a bundle of fabric, which Derek unravels with a flutter. He wastes no time swaddling Stiles like a freakin’ human burrito in a soft, patchwork taggie blanket made from fleece and cotton and a proud mother‘s unconditional love, with beautiful, meticulous needlework and colourful, assorted ribbons - of the plain and the striped and the retro print variety - sewn around the sides. It has the intended effect.

Stiles’ cries taper off with a hitch. He glances down in shock.

This…this is _his_. From his apartment.

Oh, God. _Oh, God_. This is so much worse than he previously believed. Derek was in his apartment? When? H-how—? _Jesus_.

Did he sneak in this morning, while Stiles was at work? Or last night—did he creep into his room in the middle of the night, careful not to stub his toe on the bedpost or slip on a stray sock, tiptoing past where Stiles was stretched out in his briefs, mumbling in his sleep or caught in the throes of a debilitating nightmare, to sneak into the adjacent bathroom and rip off that old, awful, goddamn—

Goddamn fucking blanket that long ago quit smelling like his mom.

Stiles sniffs hard, vision blurring, as Derek hushes and shushes and erases all traces of sticky tear tracks.

“Such a tired boy,” he murmurs. “Sleepy boy, huh?”

Derek‘s voice is a low, reverent murmur as a pensive finger caresses Stiles‘ cheek. He bumps his nose with his own, nuzzling gently. “So perfect. My perfect baby boy.”

Deaton busies himself sweeping a black scanner over the nape of Stiles’ neck to scan for the elusive barcode. At the splutter of a digital bleep, he lowers the device and Derek fastens the last of the buttons, placing yet _another_ sneaky kiss over the covered mark. Stiles is really starting to wonder about those.

“Here’s the number for your chip.” The doctor holds out a glossy card, not unlike a credit card, scissored between his ring and index fingers. “You can edit your details online. There’s even an app you can download for mobile devices which will notify you of any irregularities in your cub‘s whereabouts. I‘ve taken the liberty to get dear Stiles registered in advance, and have filled out as much personal information as I possibly could. However, you may wish to check it over yourself.”

“Thank-you, Deaton. You didn’t have to do that.”

“It was no problem.” He waves away the words of gratitude. “As for you, mister,” he turns to Stiles with a genial smile. “Your Daddy has warned me not to go handing out any naughty candy. So you’ll have to make do with this.” He strips off a cartoon sticker of a dizzy-looking wolf with a bandage wrapped around his head from a thick roll, claiming to be, **_‘_____’s First Bravery Award.’_** Deaton fixes it the front of his sleeper, before passing over a black marker for Derek to neatly write _Stiles_ in the blank space provided. He scores a neat line through the extra ‘S,’ and gives Stiles a proud, mega-watt smile he in no way feels he deserves.

Who was it, exactly, that blubbered like a scared little kid not five minutes prior? And _who_ exactly got sidetracked by his mother’s hand-stitched childhood blanket? Oh, that’s right. _Him_ , that’s who.

Pathetic.

He’ll never pull off the Great Escape at this rate. If Stiles ever wants a shot at some grand getaway worthy of Bond himself, he’ll have to keep his wits about him.

“Daddy also has a special surprise for his little darling.” Poking around his bag once more, he beams as he finds the object of his search. “Look what Daddy brought you…” Derek digs out a medium-sized cuddly wolf with rich red eyes and sleek black fur, and presents him with a flourish. He gives the plush toy a playful shake. “This is Alpha. He was Daddy’s when he was your age.” Alpha ‘dances’ over to Stiles and bestows a tickly peck on his nose. But that doesn’t stop Stiles from cowering away.

The eyes are just like the ones from his nightmares.

“I think you’ll be the best of friends,” Derek smiles, “Don’t you?”

What. The. Ever-loving. F—

Deaton grins. “Now that that’s sorted," he says, "I think he’s good to go.”

“Really?” Derek’s brows sit high on his forehead. His voice is almost breathless. In excitement or disbelief, Stile’s can’t be sure, but neither bodes well for him.

“Come back for a check-up in a fortnight and remember to ring up for his blood results. They should be back within the week. But, yes, Derek. Just sign the release papers and that’s you. He‘s all set for you to take home.”

Derek scribbles his signature on a little pink slip and hands it over. In return, Deaton tears off a sheet from his prescription block and waves it out for him to take. “Here’s your scrip. Go to the drug store on main street. They’ll get that filled for you no problem.”

“That's brilliant, Deaton, thanks. I owe you so much. What do you think, Stiles? Wanna say thank-you to the nice doctor?” Derek stands and readjusts his grip on Stiles, smoothing the boy’s hair out of his face and dabbing at another smudge of drool. He glares. Furiously. “I think he's just a little overwhelmed,” Derek murmurs, apologetic.

“It's fine. I'll see you both in two weeks time.” Deaton leans in close and waggles Stiles‘ foot. “That’s this many. See?” He holds up two fingers in a peace sign, making Stiles grit his teeth and huff in boiling anger.

“Wave bye-bye!” Using his limp hand, Derek bids the doctor farewell, flopping it around with a sunny smile. “Okie dokie, tiny-toot.” He swings the diaper bag over his shoulder and joggles Stiles on his hip, one hand bracing his back, the other supporting his rear; just like a real baby. “Ready to hit the road?”

 [](http://s1302.photobucket.com/user/LittleDesertRose/media/wolf%2013_zpsxx432xvk.png.html)

(His feet tread silently across the cluttered floor, careful not to disturb the slumbering cub, flat on his back with one arm flung over his face, snoring quietly. Tonight his dreams are peaceful, and, for that, Derek is grateful. They’re not always so privileged.

He snatches crumpled shirts and knickknacks from shelves to rub into his skin—to smother in his scent-glands where the dominant stench will prevail for weeks to come. The toothbrush is lifted from its holder and dunked into his mouth. His washcloth swiped under his pits.

Derek swaps out his discount detergent for a gentler alternative with a similar scent; he’ll never notice the difference. He replaces Stiles‘ sleeping pills with the Society’s own superior brand - a low-dose to start him off with; he’ll gradually build it up later - with the added bonus of those delightful happy hormones.

Overtime Stiles will become more and more receptive to his Daddy’s scent. To the point where, once hooked, Derek’s scent alone will be able to invoke feelings of calm and safety, initiated by increased levels of oxytocin and good old-fashioned endorphins. What can he say? Never hurts to have a head-start. Nor does he object to satisfying his wolf’s baser urges.

Derek longs to roll around and mark his sheets, but that will have to wait. Maybe in the morning. Depends what time his shift starts. Whether Stiles lies-in or not. He’ll keep his schedule open just in case. It’s been too long. His scent there is starting to fade.

Instead, Derek has to content himself with lounging against the wall and keeping watch, ear cocked as he listens for the steady thump-thump-thu- _thump_ of the baby's heartbeat.

But first things first.

He perches on the edge of the bed. Derek brushes back a stray hair from his sweaty brow and watches Stiles’ eyes flicker beneath shuttered lids. This close, he is overcome with the temptation to scoop him up bridal-style and vault over the windowsill, never to return. But, no. Not yet. All in good time.

He presses a feather-like finger to the pale, lukewarm flesh where the boy’s t-shirt has ridden up and maps out a tall _I_ between prominent ribs, an inverted _L_ along his side and across his sunken tummy, followed by a broad _U_ up and around the navel.

Satisfied, Derek settles back. Pets his hair. Then rights his rumpled tee.)

 


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The projected length of this fic just keeps getting longer and longer.

“I spy with my little eye…a stubborn baby boy who won’t go beddy-bye.”

The sun shines high in the sky. Every so often, it snags on his listless gaze—searing rays of sunlight slashing across molten honey iris.’ His eyes water, and it could be tears, it could be the glare; who could tell? Only the flashing clouds overhead give any indication of speed as they peel out of the parking lot and head north onto the freeway.

Beacon hills, the small town he grew up in, the only home he’s ever known, grows fainter and fainter in the wake of squealing tires and the stench of burning rubber. Soon, all that remains is a murky haze far off in the distance; nothing more than a compilation of flaky memories to be left behind and swiftly buried.

The exhaust belches a smoky cloud of fumes while the engine purrs in content. And Stiles doesn’t need an unobstructed view to know that the dial is slowly climbing towards 60 mph, and holding steady, just nudging under the speed limit. Barely legal.

Dude, what is even saying? Nothing about this is _remotely_ lawful.

“Come on, sweetheart,” his captor coaxes. “It’s way past naptime. Aren‘t you getting sleepy yet?”

It‘s been two minutes - three, at most - since he was bundled into the back of the cramped Camaro. No sooner was Stiles carted out to the sweet, foxy ride he had so badly wanted to take for a test-run, with the kind of horsepower he would die for, than he found himself being strapped into a huge, portable car-seat with a flat clasp and tight _five-point_ harness that went places no nylon has _any_ business going—with two attachments fixed around the shoulders, another two fastened across his hips, and one final bastard riding up his arse.

He feels ridiculous.

The seat isn’t unbearable. Rather, with straps that neither pinch his skin, nor bunch his clothing, it proves to be a comfortable, cushioned companion. But, c’ _mon_! How much lower can he sink? Looks like his dignity is retiring in style. Not that he possessed much to begin with.

Derek had a travel pillow wedged underneath his head to support his weakened neck, as vulnerable as a soft-spotted newborn, and cushy inserts line the constrictive seat for maximum comfort. Stiles’ mouth, he plugged up with a silicone nipple Stiles dares not name, and a soft, polar fleece blanket was tucked around his slack form, over the top of his present taggie one, while velvety-furred Alpha was popped in the crook of his arm.

The car itself is barely holding onto its cool factor.

Aside from the baby toys clipped onto the car-seat—dangling rattles and rings and animal beanies—the Camaro has to contend with a particularly babyish window shade, fronted by a howling wolf cub and announcing to all of the world that Derek is either a douchey wuss afraid of sunburn - which he doubts - or a pompous show off, who would like you all to know that he is in possession of a baby. A cute one. That is adorable. Or some more likely combination of the two. (Stiles is inclined to go with the latter. The proud ‘Baby On Board’ sign he paused to gawp at during his futile resistance while being buckled into the backseat, scratching and screaming, is evidence enough.)

The sun blind itself is made from a mesh material and sports four ugly suction cups—used for protection from harmful UV rays that are hardly all that much of a threat in the first place.

Like, c’mon. Really. The windows are tinted black, for Pete’s sake!

Which, for the record, does not stop Stiles from suffering from excruciating self-consciousness. The thought that any passing motorist could, at any moment, peer in and take one good look at his condition, keeps him constantly on edge.

All he has to do is glimpse at his reflection in the glass and Stiles’ cheeks flood red. His insides ice over with shame and something else he can‘t quite place.

It doesn’t get much worse than this. Or so he thinks.

Almost to himself, Derek mutters, “Let’s see if Daddy has anything that might help.”

The driver’s window slithers down a crack as Derek jabs a button and receives a welcome gust of fresh air. He briefly takes his eyes off the empty road to lean over the passenger’s side and pop open the glove compartment, sifting through what sounds like a clatter of jewel CD cases and loose papers. Straightening with a pointed smirk, Derek slides on a pair of expensive-looking Ray Bans and prods the CD player to eject the current disc. In goes one, out goes the other. Stiles doesn’t much care either way. He doesn’t see why he should.

“We don’t like _Lady Antebellum_ , do we?” Derek rhetorically questions, pulling a theatrical face of abhorrence. “No, we don’t. Ergh, of course not. That‘s Auntie Laura‘s appalling taste in music for you. Remind me never to leave you alone with her for any significant periods of time. Bad influence. Way too many star-crossed lovers and tragic heartbreaks and all that romantic rubbish. Not for my sweet baby’s innocent ears, oh, no, no, no. This is much more appropriate.”

Stiles thinks he’s prepared for anything. Ready to take on the world. After all, what could be worse than a compilation of cliché - guilty-pleasure - country anthems?

A lot—as it turns out. A _whole darn lot_.

Initially, it doesn’t seem so bad. Stiles is lulled into a state of complacency. Over the speakers comes a posh, overly-enunciated female voice; not unlike that of an audio-book. She guides him through a series of relaxation techniques in a slow, melodic pitch that would send even the most despairing of insomniacs into a deep, dreamless sleep—no mean feat. But, then.

Then starts the singing.

The singing—and the chanting—and the creepy-ass, horny whale moaning; with a few, sing-along nursery rhymes shoehorned in just for the sheer heck of it. It is sick, venomous torture for any eardrums of the adult variety, this is. Only a sadist would consider this— _this_ … ** _monstrosity_** —entertainment. Mindless drivel to mollify the young, or otherwise mentally afflicted—that‘s the intended audience. Many a man has been driven mad by less.

It ain’t like anything Stiles ever heard before. And that’s saying something. He was a regular patron at the Jungle. Worse, Stiles has a feeling this is not the first time Derek has listened to it.

He seems _awfully_ familiar with a number of catchy choruses. _And_ he’s been humming along with some of the more up-tempo tunes, finger tapping out a beat on the steering wheel. If that’s not a watertight marker of insanity, he doesn’t know what is. Who on earth would _willingly_ subject themselves to this shit? No-one. No-one with a fully-functioning brain or IQ over 85, that‘s for sure.

Maybe if he kicks up a fuss Derek will turn it off? It’s worth a try. Better to have tried and failed than to continue this unrelenting assault on his being.

“Eh- _eh_.” Stiles throws out an arm and grunts. “Dah! Dah, _no_.”

The botched attempts at speech fill Stiles with blistering, toe-curling embarrassment and rage that he feels livid for having been forced to endure. It’s not like it’s _his_ fault he’s struggling to locate the nimbleness and finesse required for mastering hard consonants. No matter how hard he tries to coax his tongue into fluency, it only ever responds with more gibberish. The bastard probably planned this. Something in the bogus shots the doctor gave him.

How else do you explain the small, choked coo-turned-cough Stiles hears the man working so desperately to stifle? As if he can‘t believe just how precious he is.

“Dah! Ah!”

His butchered adaptations of Derek’s name, Stiles bitterly reflects, sound more like cries for _Daddy_ , or _Dada_ , than any purposeful effort he could have made. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that’s what he was _going for._ But it’s out of his hands. He holds no power here.

And hadn’t they said something about corroding language centres? Is this what they meant? For all Stiles knows, his brain has been entirely re-wired. Derek=Dada. The thought is chilling.

To be stuck like this…unable to communicate beyond a select few _ooh’s_ and _aah’s_ and disjointed grumbles…It’s more than he can handle.

It harks Stiles back to the time in sixth grade when he had his bottom two molars removed. Mouth stuffed full with soggy cotton balls and high off his ass on painkillers. Except this time, there are no loopy hallucinations or senseless fits of giddiness to accompany a liberal - though harmless - dispersion of laughing gas. Nor is there an eager camera shoved in his face for future blackmail material by his opportunistic father, whose stoic face and unflappable demeanour does little to depict the years of wise-cracks and good-natured ribbing that would follow. The family Christmas card that year alone was the stuff of legend (and side-splitting giggles).

No.

This time. There is only a crazy man. And his crazy songs. And Stiles’ unparalleled provocation.

“What’s the matter, baby? Are you warm enough? Do you need the window put up?” Stiles can’t tell for sure, what with his eyes shielded, but judging by the cant of his head as he spins the wheel, he assumes Derek is peering at him through the rear-view mirror, brows furrowed.

“Don’t be afraid to speak up, sweetheart. We wouldn’t want you getting cold.”

Stiles wants to roll his eyes at the faux-concern. He resists—if only just. The decision _might_ have something to do with his blooming headache and complete and utter lack of control over his body. But, it’s fine. No biggie.

As for the question of body temperature?

You could say he‘s warm. You might even go so far as to say _seething_.

“Fuh Darh! Nu ah mmm‘goes ommm.”

“What is it? Does Stiles just want to talk to Daddy?”

“Eeh _hhh_!” Stiles is getting seriously frickin’ pissed at being unable to communicate properly. To take away his speech - his single defence against the world - and abandon him to a life of - of fizzing frustrations and blissful ignorance, of misinterpretations and endless belittling, where people will only ever hear what they want to hear, where they will take your values and beliefs and troubles as background noise at which to smile and coo…

It’s just cruel.

Derek _hmm’s_ and _ahh’s_ in all the right places. He doesn’t need to listen. He won’t try to understand.

“Uh-huh…Mm-hmm…Is that right?…Really..?” He speaks in that same ridiculous tone that is used universally when communicating with young children and small, clueless animals alike: jovial and high-pitched and chock-full of rainbows and unicorns and happy endings.

“ _Hehehhhh_!”

“I know, I know.” Derek shoots him a pearly grin. “This is so exciting. Aren‘t you excited? I‘m excited.”

Stiles screams behind his pacifier-gag. He twists and turns his head from side to side, frantic to dislodge it.

“Heh-eh-ehh _hhHHH_.”

“We’re going to go to Daddy’s den where we’ll get you all settled in and familiarised with everything. And then tomorrow, you can meet all of Daddy’s pack. How does that sound? Would Stiles like that?”

He kicks and shouts and rubs his vocal cords raw. He lashes out with all he‘s got. It’s all for naught.

The only benefit to his uproar is that at least Derek‘s paused the ‘music.’

“Daddy has two packs. Where we’re going—that’s his new one. Daddy’s in charge of that. It includes all of Daddy’s bestest buddies and _their_ bestest buddies and Auntie Cora and big brother Isaac - he‘s _very_ excited to meet you - and a few other little cutie-pies, who aren’t half as cute as you, but don’t tell them I said that.”

Over the sound of those slow, tantalizing tones, Stiles spares a thought to Derek’s peculiar preoccupation with the word ‘pack.’ Why keep repeating it? Why not say ‘family,’ or ‘kin,’ or any other normal-ish thing? Also— _den?_ What’s up with that? Hell if Stiles knows. Dude’s crazy. Who knows why crazy people do the things they do.

“—Then there’s Daddy’s old pack. It’s got Auntie Laura and Uncle Peter and _Daddy_ ‘s mommy and daddy. You‘ll meet them next week, fingers crossed.”

In anger, Stiles spits out his pacifier.

He’s done. His head hurts; he’s lost all access to words. He’s tired and achy. And, and he doesn’t _understand_ this. Any of it.

Why is he _doing_ this?

Now…Stiles forgets to shut his trap on the best of days. Many a time he’s been told off in class for getting caught day-dreaming. Gaping at some poor sucker‘s back, or - on one particularly memorable occasion - down the front of Mrs. O‘Connell’s low-cut shirt. Add to that the pacifier acting like a cork to hem in all bodily fluid, reduced muscle control, and whatever weird grunts he‘s got going on, and you've got a recipe for disaster.

It’s drool city over here. Cool air blows on his face; makes him all too-aware of the cooling spit dribbling down his chin.

Derek glances in the mirror and frowns. “Oh, sweetheart,” he sighs, “Your bah-bah’s fallen out. How did that happen? Poor baby; we can‘t have that. Don’t worry, just hang on a second. Daddy‘ll get it for you.” He shifts in his seat and lifts one hand off the wheel. Grappling around the immaculate carpeted floor, it doesn’t take long before his hand comes into contact with the slimy object, and he crows, “Aha! There you go, sweetness. That‘s better.” It’s amazing how, seemingly without looking, Derek sticks the pacifier back into Stiles’ mouth where it loosely hangs between his teeth, all without faltering in his grip of the steering wheel or swerving once. Despite Stiles’ fears that they were about to be involved in a high-speed crash and it would all be over before it had even really begun, the Camaro glides along smoothly down the gentle curve of the road and onwards towards their destination without faltering. Stiles, for his part, is…confused.

Without thinking, he sucks once on the plastic bulb and freezes when the loud squeak of rubber fills the silent space. His spine stays ram-rod straight and his breathes narrow as he ponders what to do next.

In his time, Stiles has been known to chew on anything from gnawed-on pens and pencils, to straws and paper clips and deflated balloons. He has what Scott has called an ‘oral fixation.’ Stiles blames ADD. When he’s bored, or brooding, or agitated, he can‘t help but wrap his lips around whatever‘s available. It’s never been a conscious choice. Once, when he was five, he almost choked to death on a pencil stub. Scared the life out of his mother and ended up in the ER, blue in the face and berated by an old bat of a nurse who wouldn’t know compassion if it smacked her in the face.

He kicked the nail-biting habit after wearing them down to the bloody bed, gave up gum when it got stuck in his hair, and had his rubber bands confiscated after he plucked them so much, his arms were black and blue.

Been there, tried that. The problem persisted.

And now…now he’s scared.

Because if he gives in…

Just this once, if Stiles nibbles on the pacifier, because he’s anxious as hell, and, well, that’s what it’s there for…There won’t be any going back. Because one thing he’s picked up on from this whole ruse is that Derek plans to treat him no better than an infant, and, sooner rather than later, he’s going to expect him to _act_ like an infant, and is this not what he wants?

What are the odds that once Stiles is released from this blasted car-seat, Derek is going to remove the pacifier and that’ll be it, done and dusted, no more of that?

Not very likely.

It will be there. If not all the time, then most of the time. And it’s already been established that Stiles has an addiction to these kind of things. Were he to start now, he fears he’d never stop. And if anyone were to come across him, if help were to ever come, how could he refute Derek’s claim - within the confines of his own mind, never-mind anyone else’s - that he is a child, when he behaves like one? Speaks just like one, looks just like one. _Acts_ just like one.

He couldn’t.

It scares him. Because it’s not that Stiles wants to suck on the pacifier, or even that he’s accepting of it, but all the same…what is he to do? He can’t avoid it forever. Not with the amount of saliva that’s been swishing around his mouth throughout the last five minutes that he has had to swallow down, taking care not to relinquish the clench of his jaw around the invasive nipple, or allow it to bob from the outside. Moreover, the temptation is too great. Eventually, his mind will wander or his focus will slip, and—yup. He’s doomed.

Because, the truth is, Stiles can’t just forcefully expel it, either.

Freaky reflexes and lenient conduct thus far aside, Stiles is conscious that perhaps Derek does not have a limitless supply of patience and may not react favourably to having to retrieve the fallen soother yet again. And he doesn’t want to push it. Once—Derek can chalk that up to whimsical youth. Twice within a ten minute period…could maybe be ascribed to childlike clumsiness and fumbling lips. He’d happily rescue his ‘bah-bah.’ But any more than that? Who knows how he would respond?

As his father would say, once is chance. Twice is coincidence. Third time is a pattern.

And no truer is that than here. Certain measures would have to be taken to ensure that Stiles plays along. Whether by threat or punishment, Derek would not take kindly to Stiles disrupting his little game, or fantasy, or whatever it is he’s calling it. He would insist on compliance.

So…what course of action would be best, in the long run?

Fight back, no matter how trivial the rebellion? Or keep his head down, stay out of trouble, save up his energy for something bigger?

It may seem small; this issue of the pacifier. But it signifies something much greater:

Does Stiles start as he means to continue?

Strike now and never let up? Or perform, within reason, to the audience? In the sense of neither agreeing or rejecting. Just…simply being. Yet, isn’t it said that inaction is as—if not more—incriminating as taking the wrong course of action? That’s what they taught in school, at any rate. In the case of victims and bullies and those who stood by and let it all happen. It was _wrong_ , they said. Not to do anything.

Stiles does, it‘s true, harbour a special kind of resentment for the ones who neither taunted nor participated, nor cared enough to step in, _just once_ have stepped in, and said, “That’s enough. You’ve had your fun. Leave the poor guy alone.”

In his current state - abandoned by his strength and agility; incapable of holding up his own head - the answer is obvious.

But—it niggles at him: the worry that this chance may be all he’s got. That if he submits now, Stiles won’t ever stop. The descent to hell is a gentle one, he’s found. What seems unspeakable at present may become much more appealing by comparison soon after. It’s always easier to go along with the next big dreadful when you’ve compromised so much of yourself to survive already. He has due cause to be wary.

Stiles is scared.

He has no clue what to do. And no way to make his pleas for help felt.

And then. Just when he thinks it couldn’t get any worse —you’ll never guess what.

It gets worse.

Travel toys rock to and fro from the soaring arc overhead as they hit a bump. One smacks Stiles right in the face. He doesn’t cry. But it’s a close thing.

“Awww. Sorry, buttercup.” Derek reaches back and rubs a hand over wherever - or whatever - he comes into contact with first. Which happens to be Stiles’ knee—a time-honoured ticklish area, damn him. Stiles’ leg jars at the casual touch. His skin tingles following the sudden brush of heat. “Auntie Cora says Daddy is a real silly billy when he‘s driving.”

Stiles grunts to himself. So reassuring.

Hey. Maybe they’ll get flagged down by a deputy Stiles knows! ‘Cause that would go _so_ well. Poor guy would be, like, flipping open his little black notepad and cursing entitled assholes who think they own the road like they personally paved it with gold, pondering lunchtime and the nutritional value of meatball subs (‘least, that‘s what he swears his Dad did), as he saunters up to the flashy vehicle, intending to issue your standard speeding ticket. Instead, finding the son of their late Sheriff restrained in the backseat, cheeks stained a belligerent red, screaming bloody murder. A kid can dream, right?

But, hey. Look on the bright side. With the way he’s going at it, Derek’s gonna have to stop for gas at some point, right?

Yeah…yeah, that’ll work.

Hmm…he can see the potential here. Derek slows down to make a pit-stop at a service station. Hops out, maybe plays with his phone as he fills up the tank. Plenty of time for Stiles to—what? Scream? Cry? Hope somebody just happens to be walking by who can read the patent terror in his eyes?

That’s a lot at stake to be leaving it to chance. Yet, does he have a choice?

Would his defiance get mistaken for crankiness? Would they crook a finger and cluck at his cuteness, as Deaton had? Or act like any sane human-being and call 911 on speed-dial? He’d need a mind reader at this point. Stiles’ whole world has tilted on its axis. He can’t trust anyone to do the rational thing anymore.

And, in any case, the thought of anyone seeing him in this state sends a horror-stricken shudder rocketing through him. He didn’t choose to be put in this position, but that doesn’t make it any less damning. Imagine if Jackson saw him now. Or any other one of his faithful high-school tormentors. They wouldn’t care that Stiles wasn’t complicit in any of this. They would see only this blessed opening—and pounce on him.

He could never show his face again. Never set foot in Beacon Hills, not unless he values his dignity.

Never lay flowers upon the grassy earth where his mother and his father rest...

The reality comes crashing down around him.

If only for the sake of his parents - his _real_ parents, not this sham adoption - Stiles must escape this nightmare. Who else will visit them? He’s the last of their collective loved ones.

Even with the risk of degradation, never let it be said that Stiles doesn’t _want_ to be rescued. He can handle humiliation. Compared to what he‘s currently facing, it would be like a walk in the park. Stiles doesn’t give a shit about his reputation, or what remains of it. He’s already a freak. He can deal with a few odd stares and the tender isolation that comes with being a social pariah. It’s whatever Derek has up his sleeve…

That’s what he’s afraid of.

All of a sudden, Derek’s voice breaks into his reverie. Stiles hadn’t even realised he’d gone quiet.

“Not far to go now, sweetheart,” he says softly. So much for that pit stop.

And not far, he means really close. And by really close, he means they’re encroaching on Hale territory as he speaks. As in, right about now, because _right now_ —

His ears ring with the insistent _ting, ting, ting_ of the turn signal. And they’re pulling up into a wide, unpaved road lined with a canopy of breath-taking, mature California pepper trees, spraying a hail of dirt and gravel in their wake.

Scraps of sunlight filter down through the lush leaves. Wild lavender patches spring up among strands of juicy grass and dancing wild daises. The sight is stunning in its natural beauty.

Outside imposing, wrought-iron gates, the Camaro comes to a quiet stop, and they wait in pregnant silence to be buzzed in.

Within seconds the gates slink open to grant them entryway.

Stiles’ stomach rolls.

He soon realises that this is no ordinary property. Even considering the tight security and Derek‘s evident wealth, he would be mistaken in assuming this is some grand, sprawling mansion. For it’s not just one home. Or two. Or even three.

In the heart of the forest awaits an entire gated community of cookie-cutter family residences with mowed lawns and pretty flowerbeds. There are subtle differences between each home where character and personal taste has obviously played a role. But for the most part - at a quick glance - they are all the same.

By all appearances, it is a neat and friendly neighbourhood where everybody knows everybody; where residents live out of each other’s pockets, and goodwill runs rampant. Yet there’s something wild and reticent in its depths. An itch that cannot be scratched that alerts Stiles that all is not as it appears.

As if he didn’t know that from his sad-ass state of affairs.

Finally, they idle up to largest and most impressive of the estate. Boasting a natural stone and stucco siding exterior with cut stone cladding, this home is nothing to be scoffed at. Four columns rise along the ample front porch, while curved top dormer windows entrench themselves in the clipped gable rooftop.

There are elevated steps along the limestone path leading up to a red painted front door, and a graceful weave of climbing roses and hydrangea adorn the soaring archway. In short, it is everything Stiles ever dreamed of. As if it was plucked from forsaken pits of his imagination and thrown together with him in mind.

Stiles’ throat stings. He swallows around a rock-solid lump of unidentifiable emotion.

Indulging in an instinctive sequence of sucks from his pacifier, too immersed in his thoughts to care as he wills himself to calm, Stiles forces himself to breathe in small, shallow sips of air. His panic only increases as Derek cuts the engine.

“This is us,” he announces, turning around in his seat to shed a gentle smile. Those unique, iridescent eyes touched by unimaginable sadness. “It’s been a long time coming, Stiles. Welcome home.”

(“Why are we doing this again?”

“Because I said so. That‘s all you need to know.”

“Yeah, but…Why _those_ blueprints? They‘re so lame. You couldn’t have gone for something…classier? It‘s not too late to make some changes.”

“Oh, shut up, Jackson.” Lydia elbows him. Hard. “You clearly have a woefully inaccurate distinction between classy and _classic_. I like them. They‘re…” She pauses to smirk, gives a half-shrug to the group. “Charming.”

“Exactly,” Scott nods viciously. Isaac joins in, stealing a nervous glance at their stony-faced Alpha. “Perfect for raising a family, right, Allison?”

“Look, I don’t care what the damn things look like,” butts in a bored-looking Erica, pausing in her examination of her cuticles to flick a crumbly piece of dirt from her leather jacket. She shakes out her hair, sending more specks of earth flying. “Derek’s the one fitting the bill, isn’t he? Who the hell cares?”

“Yeah, Jackson. Quit complaining.”

“Yeah, Jackson. Just keep digging.”)

 


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very, very sorry for the delay. I can’t promise a swift update, though I will do my best. As some of you may have guessed, my health has not been great and I’ve been on some heavy-duty medication that makes me super drowsy and a long way from productive. But I’m slowly adjusting, so…let’s hope things go up from here. 
> 
> Thank you all for the supportive messages. Even though I may not reply, I am so grateful to recieve every single one of them.

  

Dread drains all blood from his face as Derek’s beaming features materialize above him.

He unbuckles the criss-crossing harnesses pinning Stiles in place and lifts him out of the car-seat, cradling his head against the hollow of his throat, hand splayed across his butt, while tucking that creepy-as-fuck Alpha toy under his arm and shouldering the diaper-bag. “Shhh. It’s okay, sweet pea. You‘re alight,” Derek coos as Stiles lets a whine of disgruntlement slip. He shuts the car door with a muted thud and noses against Stiles’ fluffed-up locks, which ought to be irrevocably tousled from all this lovey-dovey crap by now. What in the name of fuck is Derek _doing_ back there? Is he… _sniffing_ him? _Again?_ What a fucking creep. Just when Stiles thinks he can’t get any more perverted, the guy just has to go and outdo himself.

Smooching a wet kiss on his crown—making Stiles itch with the desire to scrub every last slimy trace of him ‘til he‘s chafed raw—Derek rubs circles on his back in a soothing gesture and snuffles loud, deeper now, beneath the camber of Stiles‘ ear. “Ready to head inside? Come on. Let‘s show the baby his new home.”

He hooks his fancy sunglasses in the dip of his v-neck and sprints up the steps. (And, jeez, does it bear repeating. This dude is seriously ripped. He carries Stiles like he weighs nothing.) As Derek turns his keys in the door, Stiles heart is hammering like a jackrabbit in his throat. Derek nuzzles his face again and suddenly that sound from before is back. The one from Deaton’s office. It almost sounds like he’s…growling? And not even a poor initiation of one, either. No, this is an authentic bottomless rumble, tweaked to a low, mild tenor that’s borderline…comforting? If Stiles had to guess, he’d say this is the animal kingdom’s equivalent to a sweet soporific lullaby. Not that Stiles is implying Derek is an animal or anything. But—

Huh.

How does he _do_ that?

Inexplicably appeased, giving his pacifier a half-hearted suck to avoid slobber build-up and feeling boneless in Derek‘s arms, Stiles turns his attentions to the interior of Derek’s home. Or, to be blunt, his new prison.

Derek comes to a stop, and looks around as though he‘s trying to see it with fresh eyes. He dumps the diaper bag on the floor and sets the stuffed wolf atop it. “What do you think, plum-cake? Nice, isn’t it? Daddy thought you might like it.” Embedded in his voice is a syrupy coat of satisfaction. “You are going to love it here. Just you wait and see. Daddy’s never going to let you go. You’re his everything.”

Stiles gulps.

He’s breezed past a large, open living room with reclaimed wooden beams, wider-than-average flat-screen TV mounted to the wall above a white-oak mantled, hearty fireplace, and polished hard-wood floor. It has all the personal touches you might expect from a family home: light blue decorative throw pillows, large area rug, afghan draped over the back of the ivory sectional. As well as some other non-essentials.

Like the safari-themed rocker, the wooden storage container with charming baby elephant painted on the front, and what appears to be a dismantled play-pen, tucked away behind the couch, for anyone with young children. At first sight, it is both modest and refined. Clean, yet cluttered enough to look human.

However, what is by far the most striking, is the imposing shadowy painting hanging upon the adjoining wall—could be abstract; he’s not nearly educated enough in the world of art to take his words at face value—capturing a pack of prowling wolves. There is something about them that is almost inhuman. Mighty and magical and positively mesmerizing. Stiles is at once dazed and intimidated. He tears his gaze away.

In the hallway, they pass a beautiful gilded mirror where he catches sight of their reflection: Derek patting his sleepy bundle and humming, unperturbed; Stiles, wild-eyed, broadcasting a non-stop SOS signal despite his lifeless posture.

“Daddy will give you a tour later, but we’re in no rush. You’re here to stay, aren’t you, sweetheart? We‘ve got all the time in the world.”

They reach the stairway where Stiles is flabbergasted by the existence of an innocuous-looking folding baby-gate sectioning off the passageway, which Derek clicks open and swings shut behind them. For some reason, the foresight of this particular precaution, on top of all those other little provisions and Derek‘s chilling words, hits him hard. Sure, Derek might _say_ he’s in it for the long haul, but this? This proves, beyond a shadow of doubt, that his abduction wasn’t committed on a whim. This was premeditated. Meticulously plotted out.

How long had Stiles been obliviously going about his daily business, channel hopping with his feet on the table and brewing a pot of acidic coffee to chug before speeding to work, while this maniac was out buying pacifiers and baby-bouncers and _baby-proofing his residence?_

Fuck, he can’t—this isn’t —

 _No_.

Just as he is on the brink of getting worked up to the point of no return, Derek does that uncanny growly thing, as if sensing his distress, and rubs his head with a warm cheek.

Stiles calms.

Breathes in.

Out.

It’s impossible to maintain his horror. It’s put on the backburner for the time being.

They enter a stylish contemporary bathroom with a distinct earthy feel. There’s a natural slate shower tucked away in the corner—walk-in, of course. Its dark, split-face panels contrast beautifully with the sun-drenched skylight installed across the room. Beneath which rests a magnificent freestanding tub that’s big enough to house three of him. Hell, maybe four.

Bewilderingly, Derek proceeds towards none of these. There’s a smooth countertop, slate basin plunked onto a marble vanity unit, which—at a glance—holds nothing more than a fancy-smancy soap dispenser, half-empty tube of hair gel, and a pair of toothbrushes (and, oh, Lord, would you look at that. One of ‘em‘s shaped like a bright green froggy. Wonder who that belongs to). Yet, gaze beyond that and you’ll find, reflected in the backlit mirror, an undermount sink the size of a small bath tub equipped with a slip-proof mat and specially curved headrest. _Why_ Derek feels this is necessary, Stiles doesn’t know. But fuck if he intends to find out.

Even here, in the most masculine room in the house, exist hints of what is to come: the kiddie-style toothbrush, the little toy boat, the squeaky rubber duckie he hates on principle.

“Shall we draw you a nice, warm bath?” he hums, plucking the paci from Stiles’ mouth and pocketing it. “I think that would be good. What do you think?”

Stiles frowns. Bath, huh? Well, in that case, you’re headed in the wrong freakin’ direction. Bath’s over there, idiot. But—nope. _Wow, wow, wait_. Jesus fuck, he’s going for the sink.

Is he serious? He can’t be serious.

Derek waves his hand in front of the sensor until torrents of water begin to fill up the bowl. He submerges an elbow to test the temperature, and, deeming it satisfactory, shuts off the water.

Good grief. He _is_ serious. It's been over a decade since Stiles has been inside a tub—aside from lolling in one while passing around a joint at Danny’s eighteenth birthday party, that is—and now this lunatic wants to bathe him in a _sink_? No. He is not doing that. That’s insane.

Rub-a-dub-dub. Guess who's _not_ going in the tub.

“Noh!” he screeches, “Noh, Dah-ah! Noh baff!” Stiles bucks and twists in the iron-tight grip.

“I know, I know.” He clucks in understanding. “Daddy knows how badly his baby wants to get away with not taking any baths. Daddy wishes you could, too. But if you don't have a bath, your sticky hands will get stickier and stickier, and your stinky feet will get stinkier and stinkier.” Derek pulls a face. “Ew, ew, ew. Yucky, yucky, yuck. We wouldn’t want that.”

Doubling his efforts to get free, Stiles launches an assault on the infuriatingly unruffled man. But there’s nothing he can do.

His efforts are wasted on Derek. He’s completely paralysed from the waist down. Trapped in this helpless, uncoordinated body. His strikes are pitiful at best. “Hands are for helping. Not for hitting,” Derek tuts, blocking his blows with embarrassing ease. “That’s not very nice. Maybe, someday, when he’s a little bit bigger, Stiles can have a bubble bath with Daddy. But until then, my baby is just too little.”

Relenting with a punched-out sigh, Stiles takes a quick sweep of the room. Nothing sharp. Nothing that he could use as a weapon. There isn’t anything that could cause injury, neither against himself, nor another. Fuck sake.

He’s screwed.

Stiles is shit out of ideas as to how to prevent this insanely good-looking stranger from washing him in a sink as you would an infant. Of course, Derek can’t just take Stiles’ surrender with grace. Oh, no. He just has to rub it in.

He coos. Evidently, he’s given up hiding how adorable he thinks this nightmare is. The tenderness of his smile is jarring.

“Oh, dear. My poor baby. It’s not your fault you’re fussy. I bet you’re exhausted. No wonder you‘re cranky.”

Stiles shrieks. _“Nodda bay-eee!”_

“There, there.” Derek manhandles Stiles onto the counter where he quickly relieves him off his clothes and dignity. For a moment, Stiles is just so glad to be out of that tragedy of an outfit that he doesn’t even mind the cold air slapping his junk. Then the reality of his predicament permeates his mind all over again and it‘s back to torturous indignity. Figures that the first time a member of the same sex touched his dick it would be lasting and humiliating. “Daddy's going to take care of his beautiful boy. You’ll be sparkly clean in no time. Daddy just has to get rid of all the icky scents clinging to his baby boy first.”

He peels off the last of the atrocious sleeper. Stiles has drooled so much that the front is soaked through with saliva. It would be impressive were he not so mortified and flummoxed as to how such a feat is possible.

“Oh, goodness,” Derek cries. “Look at these little toesies! Oh, my gosh, that is so cute. You are just so stinkin’ cute. Daddy could just eat you up; cutie little pootie like you. You’re the most delicious thing Daddy’s ever seen, yes, you are.”

Derek’s high-pitched baby-voice just might top the list of most-obnoxious things he‘s ever heard. “You won’t miss one of these little toesies, will you? Nom. Nom. Nom.” He punctuates each advance with light lip-chomps on Stiles’ feet. And it’s because he’s ticklish, and Derek’s lips are whisper-soft, that Stiles throws him a bone and barks out a laugh.

Immediately, he clamps his jaw shut. The faint smile he’d entertained vanishes as abruptly as it came.

But Derek’s eyes are shinning with happiness. And Stiles is furious with himself for his blunder.

Affording him no time to freak out, Derek lowers Stiles’ naked self into the glorified basin of tepid water feet-first, supporting his fragile neck until he can slot his heavy head into the protective groove of the headrest.

To add insult to injury—he _fits._

Derek handles Stiles with all the care of a premature newborn, as if he‘s something precious, to be treated with the utmost respect. “This water is lovely and warm. Nothing too hot for my sweet pup.” Arranging the boy’s wayward limbs until they‘re neatly tucked inside, he brushes a stray lock out of Stiles’ eyes and gives an encouraging smile. The interior of the tub feels dangerously slippery. However, it’s clear Derek won’t let any harm to come to him. Not after going to all this trouble.

He wishes he were capable of curling into himself; were the space to allow it. Cover himself up. Away from knitted brows and concerned sea-green eyes that skip across his pale, goose-fleshed skin, winged hipbones and pronounced ribs. There aren’t enough suds to form a defensive barrier across his long, trembling legs and wobbly knees. He feels vulnerable; condemned to the wills of this man.

Next to this living statue of Adonis, one might forgive Stiles for feeling a tad body-conscious. Never before has he been more painfully aware of the knobs of his spine, or the way that they, along with his tailbone, dig into the tub.

“Such a sweet boy. You’ve had a long, hard life, haven’t you?”—And is that a note of regret in his voice?—“Well, no more. Daddy has you now. And he’s never letting you go. Daddy‘ll make it all better, you'll see.”

Derek wets a washcloth and lathers it up with an odourless soap he imagines is some organic, all-natural shit for ultra sensitive skin. Gently, he rubs the foamy fabric into every square-inch Stiles’ skin. Leaving no stone unturned. Slow, deliberate, like a loving caress. He pays special attention to any crevices or folds. Which, yeah. Includes, y’know, down below. The _neither regions_. Stiles’ penis.

He’s just thankful he only gets half-hard.

“Oopsies. Nearly forgot. Better make sure we get between those toesies.” Derek hoists his leg up for better access. “Phew.” He wipes invisible sweat from his brow when he‘s finished. “That was tough work, wasn’t it, button?”

Afterwards, Derek cups the back of Stiles’ head and props him up half-right in order to pour a beaker of warm, soapy water down his back and over the well of his collarbone. Then he tilts Stiles’ head forward, uncaps a bottle of gentle baby-shampoo, and squirts out a small blob to massage into his damp hair. It smells of mulberry and jasmine—oddly familiar. Is that…? No. That’s not the same brand Stiles uses. That’s crazy talk.

_Too far. Too far. Retreat, retreat._

Stiles blacklists the thought as Derek rinses it out. Without meaning to, he whimpers, not wanting any suds to get in his eyes, and the older man hushes him quietly. “Shhh. I know, I know. Bad bathwater. Stings, doesn’t it? Don‘t worry, puppy. Daddy won’t let anything get in those big, sensitive peepers of yours.”

The first time Stiles spatters Derek with water it’s an accident. The second time…the second time not so much. Wringing the hem of his tee—a little damp, at most—Derek had cautioned, “Careful. You’re splashing Daddy.” And Stiles had rolled his eyes, before being struck by genius.

As revenge for narrating everything they’re doing as though conversing with a young child—among other things—Stiles concentrates on raising his arm high enough that when it flops, a small tidal wave sprays Derek’s shirt. He wants him _drenched_.

However, Derek, the bastard, takes it all in stride. “Oh, you like that?” he grins. “You like splish-splashing Daddy? Plish-plash, splish-splash. That’s fun to say, isn’t it?”

What the fucking hell? He just has to suck the joy out of everything, doesn’t he? Stiles frowns. He most certainly does not pout.

Derek laughs. “Okay, grumpy.” He chucks him under the chin. “Are you about done? Water’s getting cold.” When Stiles nods, he pulls the plug and drains the water. “There! What did Daddy tell you? All squeaky-clean!”

Then, seizing a fluffy towel and patting him down, Derek takes advantage of his position to wave the towel in front of his face and ask, “Where’s Stiles? Where’d Stiles go? There he is!”

It fills Stiles with an awful amount of rage. Especially because of how much the fucker enjoys toying with him.

“I know. Mean Daddy. Wanting his baby to be nice and dry. How despicable of me.”

Stiles grinds his teeth. That is not what he is objecting to, and the man damn well knows it. Though he knows it’s a shot in the dark, Stiles tries to shape a word of infuriation, those damn aborted vowels he can’t seem to salvage, but cuts off when all he accomplishes is the blowing some spit-balls that makes Derek turn to mush before his eyes. Giving him these love-struck moony eyes and hugging and kissing him like he can‘t believe such a treasure exists.

He makes a mental-note never to try that anytime soon. Never when Derek’s in the room.

It takes Stiles shivering violently to snap him out of it. It’s not long before Stiles wishes he hadn’t. Derek unearths a tube that Stiles recognises as a popular hypoallergenic hair-removal cream. Killer of hair follicles; renowned for its…permanent properties. The older man spurts a generous splodge onto his palm and embarks on the long process of kneading the thick lotion liberally into Stiles’ skin. His legs, arms, abdomen. Nowhere is safe. Hairs flutter to the tile and Stiles mourns the loss of his body hair, but there’s nothing to be done for it now.

“Look at you!” Derek chirps at the end, grinning ear-to-ear like a Cheshire cat. “My beautiful boy. So soft and smooth. Isn't it wonderful?” He picks him up and proceeds to swaddle Stiles in a hooded towel, embroidered with the face of a lamb, floppy ears and all, and cuddles him for a moment, planting a kiss on his sweet-smelling head.

Then—while Stiles is breathing a sigh of relief; when Stiles starts to think maybe the trials are over for now—Derek settles him atop a blanket on the floor, fingers circling his ankles and hoisting his legs up into the air. Stiles goes ahead with it passively, not thinking much of it, until he realises that the supple cotton he feels Derek sliding beneath his ass is far too thick and crinkly to be another sleeper. It’s-it’s a…a—he can’t believe he’s going there— _diaper_. And he wants to put it on _Stiles_.

That’s when he retaliates. Stiles resists with everything he‘s got, sapping his emergency energy reserves dry, arching his back like a man possessed, to no avail.

Unfortunately, it’s a token protest. A breathy staccato of, _"Eh-eh-eh-eh-eh!"_ just to make his voice heard.

Derek secures the tabs. He chuckles. “Squirmy little rascal, huh?”

Inside, it’s kitten-soft. Elastic cuts into his calves. He fears he’ll have difficulty closing the gap between his thighs with how staunchly padded it is. The diaper hugs his bottom, snug around his genitals in a way that Stiles foresees himself getting comfortable with way too soon.

That‘s when he finds himself coughing as he accidentally inhales a cloud of white. “That’s to keep your little tinkle from getting any nasty owies,” Derek explains. He must have sprinkled on talcum powder while Stiles was busy having a fit. Yup. He‘s definitely getting whiffs of it. Say what you will, but that‘s a distinct scent. “Uppsy daisy.” Derek scoops him up with an _oof_ , patting his padded rear. “Time for a snack, I think. Promise you’ll feel better with a bottle of warm milk in your tummy.”

Stiles doubts how much more of this he can take before he breaks.

 

  

Derek’s wolf is thumping his tail with all the exuberance of a hummingbird beating its wings.

Having applied the lotion to eradicate body hair and promote baby-smooth skin, Derek takes Stiles downstairs and settles with him on the couch. The pup’s pulse is wild beneath his fingertips, pupils dilated in fear, as he flattens his tongue over that moon-pale, alabaster skin and licks a long stripe vertically along his neck to the undiluted scent behind his ear. Stiles’ scent is strongest there. So warm, so heady. Derek is dizzy with it. Rumbling low in his chest to put the youngster at ease, he keeps going, lapping a shiny path down the baby’s flank, swirling his tongue inside his belly button.

“My precious boy. Mine. _Mine_.”

He inhales greedily, that sweet baby scent flooding his nose. His nostrils flare with enthusiasm, something inside Derek unwinding for the first time in what feels like forever. Already Stiles’ scent is changing. Sugary, less piquant.

Derek imprinted the sound of his heartbeat, every infinitesimal variation in his olfactory output, the pattern of his breathing when he‘s ill or winded or excited, all of it, long ago. But to hear it up close, smell him up close…No barriers, no boundaries. Just Stiles. All his.

It’s intoxicating.

Stiles is grossed out, he can tell. But this is how werewolves communicate with their young: by licking them clean, imparting their unique scent to steep in their pores, marinate in their skin, ward off rival packs. Stiles does not appear reassured.

Humming his appreciation, Derek continues his tongue bath. It may not be the most normal activity. And perhaps he should dial back the wolfy shenanigans a bit. But, in spite of his aversion, Stiles is slowly relaxing. Whether he recognises it as such or not, it’s instinct—An Alpha grooming his pup. It is as effective in the practice of bonding, as a human mother nursing her child. If not more so. This is one of the most intimate things Derek could do.

And Stiles is responding. Positively. As a cub should.

Once the wolf is happy, Derek props the little one up on a Bobby pillow with an arrow design slipcover courtesy of Allison for some tummy time, in the middle of a soft nest made up of dirty tees and the bedspread and pillows Derek raided from his bed this morning to assuage his fanatical nesting instincts. He lays Stiles in a reclined position staring up at the ceiling. This way, he can look around him, with his head supported by the bump of the pillow and his cute little tushie immersed in Derek’s covers below.

He’s too little to wriggle around or get into any trouble, so Derek doesn’t mind leaving the baby to entertain himself while he prepares his bottle.

The cub wears a grumpy little frown. He tries to move, but only manages to rub his teeny sock-clad feet together. Derek bites his lip but fails in containing his mushy ‘ _awwww.’_ He departs quickly in fear of swooning at the adorableness.

Tipping a level scoop of calorie-rich powder into partially boiled water, Derek pokes around through his designated ‘Daddy Drawer,’ containing a few surreptitious items that he feels are pertinent to taking care of Stiles. Including but not limited to the 30 grams of glutamine he stirs into Stiles’ formula to slow his metabolism.

“Hmm. That should do it.”

Drinking this, he’ll be packing on the pounds in no time. Derek made sure that the formula he bought featured supplements that support healthy weight gain—Best on the market. He’d consulted several dieticians on the best course of action after his chat with Deaton. What? A second opinion never hurt anyone.

On top of that, Derek retrieves the low-grade sedative he has at hand and pushes a couple of pills from their foil casing and plops them in the milk. The mixture fizzes furiously as they slowly dissolve. The Alpha shakes the bottle until all the bubbles have popped up. Then he tests the temperature by squeezing a drop onto his wrist. It seems fine, so he hastens back to Stiles’ side.

Just as expected, Stiles hasn’t gone far. The blankets are somewhat dishevelled, but that’s about it. Derek can smell his frustration, coloured with the sour tang of shame, and smiles to himself. Such a silly puppy. Fraught with all those big boy thoughts. He’ll grow out of the habit soon enough.

Derek just has to be patient. He’ll come to accept his Daddy in time. Crave his attention, even. One can only hope.

It’s a work in progress, he’ll admit.

“C’mere, cupcake. Oof. Tired boy.” Kneeling on the floor, Derek curves a hand around his son's head and gathers him up. He sinks down onto the couch and pulls a blankie over their forms to better embrace his baby boy. Lounging in the crook of his elbow, a warm, welcome weight in his lap, Stiles is the picture of innocence in Derek‘s arms; big, soulful eyes and angry pouty lips. Derek beams down at him.

He tilts the bottle and watches as Stiles obediently starts suckling the teat. He swallows rapidly in an effort to keep up as shoot after shoot of sweetened, full-fat milk is spurted into his mouth. Derek draws back a back a bit so that the output slows to a more manageable trickle, watching Stiles’ hollowing cheeks in awe.

It makes his wolf puff up with pride, smug and pleased, at providing for his cub.

“That’s it, take as much as you need. Good boy.”

It should taste good. French vanilla with a dash of almond. But that’s not why Stiles has taken to it without difficulty. God, wouldn’t that be great?

"Mmmmm. Yummy-yum.”

So chuffed is Derek’s wolf, that vibrations start up in his chest and a ticklish sensation stems from his throat and—suddenly Derek’s purring. The rumbling takes him completely by surprise. This…it _never_ happens. In fact, he can count how many times it has in one hand.

It’s just…Goddamnit. He’s happy. His plans are finally coming into fruition, and Stiles is here, rosy-cheeked and sleepy, and Derek can‘t imagine anything more perfect. He can hardly believe this is real.

He can‘t resist pecking the pup’s forehead for the hundredth time. He’s bursting with love and affection.

“This is just what you needed, isn’t it, sweetness? Everything you need. Daddy will always give you what you need.”

Stiles clutches his finger as he feeds him his bottle—a by-product of a reactivated grasp-reflex, he recalls from the Society’s highly recommended baby book: _Your Cub & You, the Ultimate Truth_. If chapter three is to be believed, together with his new suck-reflex displayed earlier, this will encourage Stiles to gnaw on his fist, shake his rattle, stick any hard-earned prizes into his mouth. In other words, act like a normal infant.

Hearing a whine and seeing that the bottle is empty, Derek pulls it away and pops in his pacifier as a replacement. Stiles latches on in stark relief. If only he knew how addictive the chemical component in the teat is…

The baby bottle is curved to reduce swallowing air. Despite this, Derek repositions Stiles against his shoulder to burp him and alternates between patting and rubbing his back. He revels in the closeness, the little one‘s hot cheek mashed against his throat, his fingers curling in Derek‘s shirt.

Derek walks a finger across his tummy to find it swollen and hard. He presses down gently, eliciting a whimper. “Dear, oh, dear. Is baby having tummy trouble? Daddy’ll have to fix that.” Ignoring the pup’s scoff, he rubs his tummy-tum and murmurs sweet nothings, focusing on loosening the tense muscles with soft caresses and well-placed pressure.

Derek strokes Stiles’ nose from tip to brow and smirks when the baby goes crossed-eyed and his lashes flutter as he attempts to follow his finger. Stiles yawns, gaze bleary and lids half-mast, as he slurps on his bah-bah and subconsciously burrows into Derek.

He won’t hold out much longer. Milk-drunk, warmth in his belly. Stiles will asleep in two seconds flat.

Derek smiles fondly and sings under his breath. “Twinkle twinkle, little Star…Do you know how loved you are?”

  [](http://s1302.photobucket.com/user/LittleDesertRose/media/wolf%2014_zpseaapebmc.png.html)

(It hits him suddenly. A strange sort of numbness spreads through him at the realisation.

Nobody…Nobody’s coming for him.

Who’s gonna notice his absence long enough to be concerned? His landlord? _Steven_? As if. Underpaid manager of a stuffy, small town bowling alley? That’s exactly the sort of job people walk away from every day. Backwards glance? Nope, not here. Not in this ‘career.’ No-shows are common. Nobody so much as blinks.

His co-workers? They’d assume he quit after another quarrel with Steven, or maybe Stiles finally pushed too far and was fired on the spot. Either way, it’s not like anyone is gonna pause to question it. ‘Hmm. Wonder whatever happened to that gangly kid? The sarcastic one, with the sad smile and dead eyes?’ they’ll say. Not likely.

The ladies from the senior league would ask about him. _Lovely boy_ , they’d sigh. _Such a shame._

Other than that? Stiles has zilch. In order to have your absence noted, you must first make your presence felt. And Stiles has been living in the shadows for nearing a year. Young kid of the deceased Sherriff skips town - nothing suspicious. Painful memories; no friends or family to speak of. Nothing holding him here.

‘Course he was gonna hightail it outta there. Disappear for good.

Wouldn’t you?)

 


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for everyone who refused to let this story die. Thank you.

 

>  

The morning sky is awash with colour. Streaks of ash-rose and frostbitten blue follow the sweet, Californian sunrise. Sunlight soaks the granite countertops and glances off the glossy subway-tiled backsplash and crisp, inset cabinets.

Stiles yawns and judders—as close to a stretch as this cursed body will allow—succeeding in coaxing his eyes open long enough to catch a glimpse of tanned forearms depositing him in some twisted mockery of a Moses’ basket, before they yield to the hearty cocktail of narcotics keeping his fearsome temper under control. He hears the slight sticking sound of bare feet padding on tile and then the gurgle of the coffee pot when flicked on.

It’s half-past ass o’clock. He knows this, because nutjob’s expression is way too unreasonably bright and cheery. Plus, he feels like shit. What can he say? The two go hand in hand. Crack of dawn + consciousness = bullshit. It’s basic science.

Harris would be so proud.

Through a sluggish fog, Stiles peers at a sleep-rumpled Derek—naked except for his underwear—scrubbing the gunk from eyes. Then it’s back to darkness. He dozes to the sounds of birds chirping and water running somewhere nearby. Stiles vaguely registers when the water shuts off. A door bangs open and distant bumps and thuds are heard in its place.

While he drifts, Stiles thinks. Considers everything that’s happened, ponders what to do next. He feels a million years away from his early morning shift at the bowling alley yesterday. God, has it really only been a day? It feels like a lifetime ago.

Much as he wishes he’d bailed on his appointment, Stiles isn’t naïve enough to think it would have changed anything. There was no way his situation could have been circumvented. This was always going to be the ultimate ending. Had Stiles not fallen for the ruse, all that would have been altered is the beginning.

Derek targeted him. Wanted _him_. Has done for a while. That’s the menacing part. Who knows when Stiles first popped up on his radar? Perhaps Stiles’ paranoia in recent months wasn’t nearly as ungrounded as he thought. All the signs point to an extensive fixation spanning months, maybe even years. Derek’s studied him. _Knows_ him.

The man _broke_ into his _apartment_. At least once that he knows of; maybe more. Who’s to say he wasn’t following him as well? Shadowing his every move?

Stiles can only speculate what sorts of knowledge Derek acquired during that top-tier height of surveillance.

The warning signs were there. He just missed ‘em.

Missing shirts, misplaced belongings. Nothing too fishy: tattered notebooks filled with doodles from his school days, scented candles, the occasional matte photo from the box hidden under his bed. Apart from the day he came home to find shards of cologne shattered all over the floor, Stiles never had any reason to suspect something sinister was afoot. Sure, he’d thought it odd at the time. The faux-fancy sandalwood hadn’t stank out his flat nearly as much as it should given that it had at best been described as ‘gross’ and ‘overpowering.’ There was very little liquid to sop up. Almost as if someone had poured out the remains before smashing it...

It was fishy, but altogether more puzzling than frightening. Stiles had sworn the bottle had been half-full, but maybe he’d been mistaken? Or had it simply dried up in his absence? He’d been working a double.

Yeah. His excuses were pretty dang flimsy. But those were the only explanations that made sense.

Until now.

Now, when he casts his mind back, he grows cold as the sheer extremity of those irregularities hits him.

And how could he forget that red hoodie that had seemed to appear out of nowhere? Stiles had chalked that up to a mix-up in their building’s communal laundry room. He’d asked around, but no-one had come forward to claim it. Was Derek responsible for that too?

Christ. If only he could fathom _why_.

Why him? He’s nothing special. Stiles is a good citizen. He pays taxes. Sure, he’s a bit of an asshole. Bit of a loner. But he doesn’t deserve this. He’s done nothing to warrant Derek’s attention. Or, eughhh… _affection_.

Lying in a wicker basket inches away from ground level—nothing to his name bar a clean diaper and a cotton pair of socks—Stiles rages at the injustice of it all.

Hopelessness swamps him.

Fuck knows where he spent the night. Not here, that’s for sure. He has fuzzy memories of soft sheets and bobbing airplanes overhead—Bizarre, right? More hallucinations, he‘s guessing. His head feels muzzy, whilst his eyes remain grainy, resistant to the natural rays flooding the room—searing in light of his sensitive eyeballs. Pun intended.

This is worse than the worst hangover he’s ever had. And that’s saying something.

Last concrete thing he can remember is Derek going to town on his pasty-ass flesh like a weirdo (Seriously, does the dude have some kinda freaky slobber fetish or what?) Then…lights out. Actually, wait. That’s not right. Back it up. Wasn’t there a spiked beverage involved? Now that he mentions it…Stiles can almost taste the leftover traces of milk on his breath.

It was sweet, wasn’t it? He was barely conscious by then, but he specifically recalls his incredulity at how palatable it was. Peculiar aftertaste notwithstanding.

Oh, yeah. Definitely drugged.

Explains the grogginess. Along with his inability to revive himself. That pounding headache on the hand? _Hello, old friend._

See, Stiles has this rule. Well, not so much a rule as it is an insurance policy—against such ailment as this. Stiles is an avid coffee consumer. That much is fact. He went the whole detox route a couple years back after watching a YouTube clip of well-circulated health segment from the Food Network. He spent three days holed up in his room, bedridden and dry-heaving into a waste-bin on the regular. It was _nasty_. Akin to a really bad case of the flu. Borderline traumatic, is what he’s saying. The withdrawal symptoms were a bitch. He’d become _their_ bitch. Coffee’s bitch.

After that, Stiles vowed never to go over 24-hours without a caffeine fix. He’s not proud of it. But, damn that shit is tough to quit.

So, yeah. That boiling twinge behind his eye socket? He knows what that is. And it won’t be long ‘til he’s writhing in pain, begging for a taste, just a tiny sip, _oh, please, for the love of God_ , just a little sip. The rich aroma of dark roasted beans filters through his nostrils and makes Stiles salivate.

Wonderful. That’s just what he needs. Now he’s drooling like a comatose possum.

The footsteps return. Stiles cracks an eye open as Derek crosses into his thin slit of vision. Wearing a dark satin robe with loosely tied sash, hair damp from a recent shower, he putters around the kitchen making breakfast and replenishing the carafe of coffee. He dips into the stainless steel fridge, pulling out this and that, and humming to himself, before shooting Stiles an amused smile.

“Doing okay over there, sleepyhead? Not quite awake yet, huh, baby?”

“Mggggrrhh,” Stiles grumbles in his direction.

Give him a break. He’s plenty awake. Enough to be sick of his bullshit at any rate. Screw him.

Derek chuckles. “I’ll take that as a no. Alright, Daddy’ll let the baby nap a little longer. Just sit tight while Daddy has his brekkie, then you can have yours. That all good?”

 _Brekkie_? Seriously? Yeah…no. Hard pass; Stiles is gonna have to take a rain check on that one.

Thanks for nothing, dipshit. He’d rather starve.

Derek pours himself a bowl of birdseed and tops it off with Greek yoghurt and wild berries. He leans against the galley island while he crunches and gazes out the window with a pensive, unguarded look. He paints an alarmingly domestic picture. Barefoot, in nothing but his black boxer briefs. The douchebag could have at least gotten dressed.

But, no, that simply wouldn’t do. And rob Stiles of the chance to stare at his bare chest and legs? God, no. That’d be way too easy.

Like he doesn’t feel emasculated enough as it is suffocating in a hulking diaper. Now he has this spectacle to contend with.

Stiles attempts to distract himself by focusing on his surroundings. If he uses the time wisely, he can familiarise himself with the layout and start plotting his breakout.

The kitchen is clean and simple. Functional. Tasteful arch over stove and floating open shelves harboring a mishmash of neatly sloped cookbooks, pretty ornamental bowls, and vintage glass jars packed with dry pasta, rice, and mixed nuts, alongside what appears to be tin canisters for flour and granulated sugar.

Pendent lighting. Roman window shade for privacy. Good. He’ll need it.

Derek nurses his steaming mug of coffee and sips at it leisurely. Stiles watches his Adam’s apple work under his skin as he swallows and licks his lips.

Stiles is _thirsty_.

Pain radiates along his jaw and kicks at his temples courtesy of one not-so-metaphorical earthquake that will soon split apart his skull. He whimpers and makes grabby hands at the noxious savior, black as Derek‘s soul. He wants coffee and he wants it _now_.

Gimme gimme gimme.

Stiles wriggles pitifully and whimpers again.

Hefting one of those impressive brows, Derek chooses, so clearly chooses, to misinterpret this as Stiles whining for his Daddy. Because, of course. Of fucking _course_.

He raises the lip to his mouth for another swig, grin clear even behind the mug. “Poor puppy,” he coos, “Daddy hasn’t got time for cuddles. He has to get your breakfast ready, remember? Promise we‘ll snuggle after.”

Stiles tries to snort, but even he’s gotta admit it’s more of a flapping, “Bffft.” They will, will they? Yeah. We’ll see about that.

As if he’s hugging that jackass.

Stiles tunes out the remorseless cooing, deciding to close his eyes and listen to a medley of his favourite songs instead. It doesn’t take long to lose himself. Helps that he mastered the art of daydreaming at the tender age of three. The skill had to come in handy some day.

It isn’t until Derek is crouching down in front of him and lifting him by his armpits that Stiles finally shakes himself back to awareness.

“There you are,” Derek beams. He squeezes him, and suddenly Stiles is acutely aware that they’re flush against each other, chest-to-chest, skin-on-skin. “Daddy was wondering where you went. Still a bit sleepy, are we?” He chuckles, running his hand down Stiles’ head to rest at the small of his back. “That‘s okay. We‘ll take it easy.”

Stiles feels the other man nosing at him, hears the long, deep drags of breath and smells the sharp bite of peppermint as Derek’s blustering exhale disturbs his already dishevelled hair. Derek, if possible, smells even better than he did the day before. Cedar and pine spiked with warm spices and the bitter jolt of coffee. (And on that note, man, Stiles is _dying_ for a hit of delicious brain juice.)

He can’t get enough of that concentrated musk. What _is_ that? Mmmm, he smells _so good…_

And with that, Stiles goes deathly still; realising at once he’s been nuzzling at the dude’s neck and making low, thrumming happy noises. He rears back, smarting with mortification. Twin spots of red burn high on his cheeks.

Derek responds by hugging him tighter. He pushes his face back into his sternum as if to keep him there. Suckling at its source. Gorging on his scent until his head is clouded with it and little else. Stiles can’t see, hear, or taste anything but Derek. His strumming pulse, his gripping scent, the subtle flex of his muscles as he moves.

It’s only marginally better than traditional forms of torture. Like electrocution, or being strung up and flayed alive.

Derek uses this diversion to pop Stiles into an oversized highchair and strap him in. The kitchen island is multi-level with a fitted sink and higher-tier breakfast bar. Stiles’ high-chair marks the end of a row of modest stools. Part of the family, in on the action, and also…not. Derek pulls up a stool. He must’ve placed his coffee on the edge of the counter earlier. Next to which, Stiles is dismayed to spy a stubby spoon dipped in a colourful bowl of…mush. Slimy, purple-swirled mush.

Stiles is sure he speaks for everyone when he says: _yuck_.

Puree oatmeal? Ewie ewie ew.

He’s so busy pulling faces at the infamous ‘brekkie’ that Stiles completely misses Derek affixing a car print bib around his neck. The rasp of Velcro is the only thing that tips him off.

Screwing up his face, Stiles thrashes and flaps an arm, but the bib does not come off. Doesn’t so much as wrinkle.

“Noh! Noh bib, Dah-yeee!” He makes another attempt at scratching it. Mostly just hitting himself, narrowly avoiding his eye.

“Uh-uh.” Derek tugs his hand away. “No taking that bib off. You, mister, are going to behave. Got it?”

Stiles _hmphs_ hard, arching his spine and flexing his toes. He falls back, scowling in unmistakable resentment. Stiles makes a show of yanking at the straps and slouching in the chair, attempting to wriggle his way to freedom. An angry film of tears coats his lashes as he huffs and puffs and grunts with the effort. Stiles can’t believe it. Thwarted by a highchair! With plush inserts that can be removed for washing and a removable vinyl tray. How humiliating.

It isn’t _fair._

“Ouh!”

Tilting his head in confusion, Derek stops and crinkles his thick brows. “What—?”

Stiles bangs a palm flat on the feeding tray. “Ouh! _Ouhhhhh_!”

“Sorry, munchkin. You have to stay. That’s your special chair. Daddy bought it specially for you.”

“Noh, Dah-ya! Noh, oh, ouh!”

 _“Yes,”_ he reiterates. “Baby stay. Daddy bought it, just for you. And you are going to sit there like a good little boy until you’ve eaten up all your nummy yummy brekkie.”

“NUH! Dahee, nuh!”

He drums his heels against the footrest and just—flails. Like an idiot.

Like a _child_.

That one thought quiets him like nothing else ever could.

He hates this dumb highchair. He hates the billowing sack of crinkly plastic rubbing against his thighs when he wriggles.

Stiles hates that he’s been forced into this role. But that doesn’t mean he can’t rise above it. He won’t succumb to it.

Stiles glares up at the towering figure above him, panting heavily. Remaining defiant.

He feels no reason to hide his open disdain for the position he’s in as Derek loads up a spoon of soft food and sings, “Here it comes,” circling the rubber spoon in the air as if to entice him. “Here it comes…”

He slowly brings the spoon to Stiles' mouth and holds it half an inch from his face, giving Stiles a chance to smell the fruity slush, before tapping lightly at his lips and encouraging him to, "Open up."

When that fails, and boy does it fail, Derek tries the old airplane manoeuvre in a bid to convince him to open the hatch.

"Here comes the plane...here comes the plane... _WUSSHHH_..."

Stiles blinks at the stubby spoon and bats it away as it whooshes by.

Derek sighs and massages his temples. "Nothing? Okay. Let's go again. See how Daddy puts it in his mouth? Now you do too. Say ' _ahhhhh_.'”

"Noh!" He turns away and feels the moment it squishes along the side of his cheek.

"Come on, baby,” Derek pleads. “We need to eat so our bodies stay strong. A little bite for you. A little bite for Dada. Mmhmmhmm.” He pops the thick gloop into his mouth and makes a big show of smacking his lips and swallowing. "Look. Daddy's eating his. Your turn."

Seriously? He _just_ put that in his mouth. Does he seriously think Stiles is gonna eat from that? Not on his watch.

The dishevelled man tries making faces, tries a persuasive smile, raises his brows with a wide, open mouth. Nothing works.

Stiles arms himself with a frown; seals his lips shut. Lets Derek think he’s winning by accepting a bite, then instantly spitting it out.

Apple and blueberry. Not a bad combination. He's still not eating it, though. It’s the principle of the thing.

After the third time Stiles hits the spoon out of his hand, Derek starts looking a little frayed around the edges. He reaches for his coffee.

 _Bingo_.

“Uh! Uh!” Stiles throws a finger at the mug. He's still tragically under caffeinated and his head is starting to hurt like a motherfucking bitch.

“Cup, yes. That's right, it is a cup. What a clever boy.”

"UH!" _Coffee coffee coffee!_ “EEEE!”

"Oh, _oh_ , I see.” Derek shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. Sorry, pup. That’s Daddy’s. Baby boys can’t have coffee. That’s for grown-up only, sweetie.”

“Aah aaah!” He makes another grab for the forbidden drink. A woefully unsuccessful one, of course.

It's pure dumb luck that he slaps his hand into the bowl and catches himself off guard with the wet splat. Stiles freezes. Carefully lifting his arm, he stares down at the shape of his handprint left in the lumpy paste and stares avidly as he lets it drop. A gurgle bubbles up in his chest.

He’s not sure why it's so amusing, only that it is. Takes a couple tries, but eventually he manages to whack his fist against his chin to mouth at the goo there. Not half bad.

Giggling to himself, Stiles upends the bowl and spreads the slime as thinly as he can, delighting in the icky texture. It’s fun, finger painting with puree. Who would've thought?

Preoccupied as he is, Stiles fails to notice Derek's self-satisfied smile and puffed up chest of triumph as he produces a second bowl, scrapes out a blob with his index finger, and pushes it into Stiles' lips.

He licks it clean.

Derek peddles the oatmeal into him as Stiles slops his food around.

“Such a dribbly baby, ” Derek purrs. A quick wipe here, a gentle dab there at the mess that clogs up his face. "That's it. Eat up."

Stiles feels mild annoyance as something warm and sticky pokes at the entrance of his mouth. Automatically attaching himself to the source, he twirls his tongue around the unknown digit and accepts the gluey substance, swallowing on instinct.

It tastes sweet and it's thick like oatmeal.

Either that, or...oh, God. It _is_ oatmeal.

Stiles glances up where Derek is hand-feeding him and shudders because he can't seem to make himself stop. He doesn't _want_ to stop. It's smooth and pleasant, and he wants more. A lot more.

To his credit, Stiles tries. He tries to twist away. But Derek won't let him.

“Daddy understands you’re not used to eating very much, cupcake. But you need to listen to your tummy-tum. Your tummy will let you know when it’s full.”

And here's the thing: it does.

"Mmm," Stiles hums and squirms happily as he gobbles up his third serving, his stomach positively bursting, only for the delicious delivery to pull away with a wet pop. Before he can whine, it's back; warmer and yummier than before.

He eagerly sucks it up.

“Pretty good stuff, huh? Daddy made it himself. Top secret recipe."

The oatmeal has trickled down Derek's finger and he feels his jaw working overtime to capture it all. He pays no heed to the sound of frantic slurps and a far-off chuckle.

Stiles tries to hang onto his captive, crushing the digit against the roof of his mouth, sucking it tight between his teeth, but it's too slippery and slides out with little resistance.

This time he does whine, and it seems his efforts aren't in vain, because the finger is topped up and ready to go again. His hands constrict around Derek's wrist, determined to hold his supplier in place.

Derek laughs. “You sure are hungry, huh? Ready for some more? Take your time, honey. You are such a good eater."

Deep down, Stiles is hysterical.

His abdomen is inflated like a balloon. In an ideal world, he'd be hunched over the toilet bowl, upchucking uncontrollably. Yet Stiles can’t go anywhere. He can’t do a damn thing.

He has to sit and suckle and eat, like everything’s just a-okay, as if he can’t feel his body absorbing the calories and growing with each bite.

He doesn’t have time for this.

Derek seems to think they have all the time in the world.

His tummy is meaty and gross and distended. He feels like a blimp. But despite it all, he’s hungry, dammit, and this brekkie just tastes too damn good.

Stiles falls asleep with Derek's fingers in his mouth, sucking frantically long after the delicious, heady flavours are gone.

His brain is on fire.

For what crime was he sentenced to a life of mind-numbing boredom? Stiles can literally _feel_ his brain cells decaying.

If Derek's plan is to goad him into slipping into a fugue state, well then Stiles has got news for him: it—

—is totally working. He's bored out of his frickin' mind.

Stiles tries to lift his head but it’s too heavy for him to hold and bonks off the padded fabric beneath him. Unless he wants to brain himself, he ought to quit while he's ahead. Something to keep in mind...

After he awakened from his mid-morning snoozle, Derek fed him another bottle while he was still in a defenceless, sleep-fuddled state; rubbing his hefty gut and cuddling on the sectional. So much for avoiding those snuggles.

 _Jackass_.

Although, in his defence, Stiles didn't exactly have any say. He awoke with his face buried Derek's chest and his lips lazily sucking on the man's sodden shirt.

You would think that would be it. You would be wrong, _holy shit._

Because the crackpot was wearing a motherfucking baby sling. A cotton sateen baby sling that Stiles was cosily cradled in.

He'd squirmed, all right. And strained. And just generally made it quite clear he wasn't pleased to be there. But that wasn't close to an improvement—Derek watching with a faint smile and soft infatuated eyes—and Stiles was stuck in that up close and personal pouch for two lengthy hours until Derek finally remembered that a whole goddamn world existed outside of Stiles’ average freaking face.

Even then he wasn't allowed to leave until Derek had smothered every inch of his face in big, needy kisses while rocking them back and forth. He'd very, _very_ reluctantly put Stiles down on a play mat with a soft quilt laid on top for dozing. At least—that's what he assumes it's for. Stiles is somewhat puzzled by the grey, masculine cover. It doesn't scream, 'red alert, red alert: this is for a little kid!' Which leads him to believe there's more to this than prioritising his comfort. Given that, gee, something about it just doesn't match the overall theme.

At some point while he was sleeping, Derek must have clothed him. Today’s outfit: a long-sleeved t-shirt with ‘Cheeky monkey’ printed on it and jeans with an elasticised waistband. Even they serve to make him feel small!

It was weird, cuddling with Derek, but it did have the benefit of staving off his withdrawal headache, and that's no small thing. Now that he's back on his own, Stiles is starting to feel real shitty. It's been over 24 hours since his last scheduled dose of caffeine. Achy muscles, blocked sinuses, and low-frequency—high-stake—irritability quickly set in.

Nausea prickles his taste buds. Before long he's shaking and miserable. Why, oh, why did he feel better with Derek? He must be crazy for even considering it, but a small, pathetic part of him wants to give in and cry out for attention.

He doesn't. Won't.

Though if Stiles does happen to whine softly and kick his lame-ass feet together, it's a stupid coincidence. Nothing more.

Spit gathers behind the pacifier gag, forcing him to suckle intermittently. A frenzied sheen of moisture forms on his upper lip. He sucks another thin breath between his teeth, pacifier suctioned to his skin, and fights another whimper.

Brows creased into a deep frown, Stiles shakes his head from side to side. He needs a distraction. Back to mapping out his escape route, it is. That oughta do it.

It doesn't do it.

He spends ten minutes checking out the dark alcove shelves stuffed to the brim with battered paperbacks and first editions of great American classics (a book-worm, then. Nice to know), and memorising the black and white kilim rug, but Stiles' head is actually killing him and staring at the diamond pattern until his eyes bleed isn't the natural anaesthetic he'd hoped for, whaddya know?

It. Just. _Hurts_.

Sure is boring, though.

He tries admiring the loving display of family photos—exposing a plethora of unassuming smiley strangers—on the slate grey accent wall, but his eye catches on something unbidden.

Him.

A photograph of _him._

Taken back in high-school for the yearbook. Stiles Stilinski, at your service, in all his gangly, acne-plagued wonder. Dude, he must have been, what? Freshman? Fucking hell.

Worse - worse than being advertised on a lunatic’s wall, worse than his picture being framed, worse than finding it here – Stiles never got that copy.

Their budget was stretched pretty thin that month and Stiles had begged, _begged_ , his Dad not to waste his hard-earned cash on that embarrassing blunder. He’d been wearing two polo shirts at the time. One of which was _lime green_ , the collar was popped, for Christ’s sake. Who wants that immortalised? No-one.

Derek couldn’t have stolen it. He had to have bought it.

_Back then._

Stiles struggles to breathe.

The timing of this realisation couldn’t be more heinous. He barely has time to process before ominous rumbles explode from his bowls, punctuated by an uncomfortable fullness. He hopes, he _prays_ , it's only trapped wind. Please be nothing. Please don’t be what he thinks it is.

Stiles clamps down on his muscles to hold it in, but it’s useless. There's a trickle down his crack. A sudden squirt of hot piss, then a whoosh.

He groans as his muscles contract, soaking the front of his diaper and making it grow heavier and heavier.

He orders himself to stop. But it's like his brain just - does not commute. Like they’re entirely disconnected, on separate radio frequencies.

Stiles doesn't even have the strength to cross his legs or squeeze his thighs together. The pressure is too much; the padding too thick.

Stiles unleashes the full force of his bladder on that cushioned plastic bag and begs it to hold. Finally, his urine stream is reduced to the odd delayed dribble. How is it that he didn’t even register that he had to go? He can’t believe the diaper is locking in all that moisture, feels like he peed a month’s worth of soda, and it is _saturated_.

And _cold_. Really cools down quick. Not a pleasant sensation, that–cold piss itching your junk.

Stiles has no control over what happens next.

His head pounds; his frustration mounts. He’s wet, damn right he’s upset.

His nose scrunches up, accompanied by a disgruntled grunting noise and stammered whimper. Tears swim in his eyes.

He throws his head back.

And howls.

[ ](http://s1302.photobucket.com/user/LittleDesertRose/media/wolf%204_zpsush86yzu.png.html)

The breakdown is beautiful. Maybe even more so than the lead up to it.

My God, his baby is precious.

Derek watches him as he naps, relishing the snoozy snuggles. His mouth moves soundlessly as he twitches in his sleep with his widdle bubble-tummy straining against his tee and drool-glazed chin agape. The highlight, however, being when Stiles gives a sleepy snort and nips at his shirt, eventually sucking a square into his mouth and gnawing gently.

The teeth-marks? So worth it.

The non-nutritive sucking will go a long way towards settling his sensitive tum-tum by activating the flow of saliva. It's another triumph in a morning full of them.

Breakfast went better than he could have dreamt. While he resisted at first, Stiles soon came around, even demonstrating the tongue-thrust reflex (or ‘extrusion effect’) three days ahead of schedule. It presents as the youngster’s tongue pushing out once their lips are touched. Bit of a pain when the goal is getting food into the infant’s mouth, but awe-inspiring all the same.

He doubts Stiles even noticed.

It’s hard putting him down. He'd been draining Stile's physical suffering and each whimper feels like a bullet to the heart. Hard as they were to ignore, Derek has to let his cub feel uncomfortable for a bit, even if it means he’s uncomfortable too. Stiles needs to learn that things are better when Daddy is around.

Distressing though it may be for the both of them, the trial will only further cement their bond upon reunion and foster Stiles’ dependence on him. Teach him it's natural to want to be with his Daddy - easier, even.

He’s right there the whole time. There’s no danger of anything bad happening to his little darling. No, the important thing is that Derek lets it play out. He can’t interfere.

Of course, it all comes to a head with the arrival of a sharp, acidic tang.

Derek listens as Stiles grunts and soaks his diaper. The baby makes a screwball expression. His lip wobbles once, twice, before he dissolves into tears.

He’s overwhelmed with emotion. And his young body is simply too little to hold it all in.

Derek is over within seconds. "Awwww, sweetheart. Come here, squishy. Come to Dada." Derek scoops him up and hugs Stiles close, his heart aching for him.

He changes him in record time - he may have had the supplies primed and ready to go - taping on a fresh diaper and powdering his little bottom to avoid a nasty rash.

Derek gathers up the young pup and lowers him against his chest. "Mwah, mwah, mah!" He kisses the back of Stiles' head, dipping his chin to rest on forehead and squeezing tight. "All better, see. All better." Maybe with repetition the message will sink in. "You're okay."

His pacifier has been cut loose, so Derek cleans it up and wrangles it back in.

"Shh, shh, sh."

He dedicates over half an hour to soothing and hushing the burbling baby. Derek lets his puppy cry himself out, patting his bottom and bouncing him lightly.

A rope of snot dangles from his nostril, but Derek swears he’s never loved him more. Big brown eyes wide and dewy; cheeks pink with embarrassment and tears. Poor baby is getting himself all worked up over nothing.

“Daddy loves you so very, very much. A little kiss here.” He pecks his forehead. “A little kiss there.” A kiss is planted smack bam in the middle of his brows. “And here.” Another over his eyelid. “Oh, and here.” On the tip of his nose. “Whoopsies. We can't forget about this little spot right here. This spot’s my favourite.” A final kiss on the cheek.

Abruptly, Derek goes stock-still as Stiles lays his head on his shoulder, snuffling into his skin. His breaths falter. He's scared to twitch in case he spooks the baby. There's a subtle slowing of the cub's heartbeat as he gulps down the scent. Derek closes his eyes to savour the moment. It's a memory he'll cherish forever.

Baby steps, Hale. Baby steps.

[ ](http://s1302.photobucket.com/user/LittleDesertRose/media/wolf%209_zpsmvr0elzj.png.html)

(Just then, a phone starts vibrating and Stiles’ gaze is drawn to a flashing screen on the counter. He sniffles softly. Derek swipes once and answers with a curt, “What?”

The transformation is shocking. Derek transfers Stiles to his other arm and juggles him one-handed. He didn’t even look at the caller-ID. Why is he suddenly so grouchy?

Derek’s shoulders are a rigid line as he turns and kneads his brow. “Shut up. I‘m not grumpy.”

Stiles starts.

Shit, did he say that out loud? No, wait, he couldn’t have. A teletubby would have better speech than he does right now.

“You‘re just—Look. There a reason you’re calling?...Uh-huh…And that couldn’t have waited ‘til later?”

Stiles pities whoever is on the other side of that line taking the brunt of that exasperated tone. Is it ‘cause he’s not a morning person? He was annoyingly chipper before.

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s fine.” Derek’s eyes flick down to Stiles, who shrinks under the tender gaze. Why…why are they asking about _him_? How do they even _know_ about him? Now he must know the identity of the mystery caller. Whoever they are, they’re clearly complicit in this. “Right. No—what do you mean you’re coming over? I thought it was just gonna be Isaac. Maybe Boyd. I was hoping he‘d have a calming influence on him. _You_ don’t qualify.”

Hold the fucking phone. Just what exactly is he saying? People are coming over? _Here_? To see _Stiles_? No. That can’t happen. No no no no no. It would _kill_ him. He can’t let anyone see him like this.

Choked, panicked protests scurry up his throat, but Derek pays him no heed. Instead, bouncing him in a mindless rhythm.

“Erica, please. You are hardly what I call a positive role-model. Isaac’s bad enough on his own. He doesn’t need you egging him on. Can’t you play auntie some other time?”

“Noh-noh oh! Noh, Da-ya! Oh!”

Derek looks down and crinkles his nose at his cuteness, giving him a sunny wave, before turning back to the conversation at hand.

“Besides, if you tag along, then the whole pack will want to come. It’ll turn into a whole big…event. You know I don’t want that.”

Several moments pass and Derek heaves a sigh. Doesn’t look like he’s having any luck. But Stiles is rooting for him, he better not let him down—

“...Fine.” Fuck. “But tell the others to stay away.” He scowls, and wow, it’s scary. “I mean it, Erica. No funny business. You better be on your best behaviour. I’ll kick you out, you know I will. Same goes for everyone else. Don’t test me.”

An unexpected smirk plays at his mouth. “Okay. See you then. Not a minute sooner. Bye.”

Derek tosses his phone aside and rolls his eyes.

“That was Auntie Erica. She sends her love. Lots and lots of hugs and kissies.”)

**Author's Note:**

> Wanna get in touch? Come visit me at my newly-created blog on [tumblr](http://freetoagoodhome-giggles96.tumblr.com).


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